We are put on this earth to fuck up; we’re here to shatter expectations of norm and spit in the face of ‘proper.’

We’re here to fail like it’s our life’s purpose—clumsily, in too-tight clothing, with an anthem pouring from our lungs. We wail songs of revolution, of independence and glory.

We are here to hurt people; and we’re here to be hurt by other people.

We’re here to lie, to cheat, to show blatant disregard.

Because we’re here to feel.

When we hurt, we see the hurt we’ve caused. When we fail, we carry those lessons, like souvenirs, on the sash we wear across our hearts. We’re tattooed with scars of fuck up after glorious fuck up. Because we’re ill-equipped and fumbling from the day we suck our first breaths.

And it’s beautiful.

We make mistakes that cost us friendships; we cut ties that can never be mended; we burn bridges; we carry baggage, so much godforsaken baggage.

We are to be bruised and battered through missteps.

We are to show, with pride, delicious pieces of humanity in every failing, big or small.

We will wear flaws, like barcodes, on our hearts; because of this, strangers and lovers alike will see remnants of our darkest follies. And some will shy away from the sight, but those that stay, for better or worse, will see the blisters of a life well-lived.

Keep your flaws on the canvas, little darlings. Keep your missteps as part of the dance.