They judge me on the past, not how far I've come, They see mistakes, not an achievement from the past. They see a broken little girl, not the strong woman I've had to become. They look at my tattoos and see rebellion, not the story behind them. They see scars and think of them as a weakness, not the struggles behind them. They see my anger, not what caused it. They see the look in my eyes and call it insanity. No one ever bothers to understand; they label it as a problem, a misfit in the life of a perfect life that will never exist