“Can you say I’m beautiful?”

Not out of pity. Not to comfort me. But because deep down, I need to believe that there’s still something soft and sacred left in me after everything I’ve been through.

I didn’t choose the pain I carry.
I didn’t ask for the hands that hurt, the voices that yelled, the days spent shivering in silence, waiting for kindness that never came.
I didn’t ask to be cast aside like I didn’t matter — like I wasn’t once someone’s whole world.

But through it all… I loved.
Even when no one loved me back, I still hoped.
Even when every door closed, I still waited.
Even when the scars began to form — inside and out — I still believed that maybe, just maybe, I was worth saving.

Look at me now.
Yes, my fur isn’t as smooth as it once was.
Yes, the years of pain etched lines into my body, and my eyes carry the weight of too many goodbyes.
But if you only see that, you’re missing the most important part of me.

Because beauty isn’t found in perfection.
It’s in survival.
It’s in the way I still lean into your hand even after being struck.
It’s in the way I still wag my tail when someone smiles at me.
It’s in the quiet trust I offer — broken, hesitant, but real — when someone kneels beside me and whispers, “You’re safe now.”

So yes, I ask again — can you say I’m beautiful?
Can you look past the scars, the roughness, the past I never chose… and see the soul that never gave up?
The heart that still beats with hope?

Say I’m beautiful. Not because I look perfect, but because I am still here.
Because I am still soft, still open, still believing that somewhere in this world, someone might see me — all of me — and still choose love.

Because that, truly… is the most beautiful thing of all.