Imperfections

I’m no longer allowing you to look through my acid green eyes and call my imperfections an entangled mess of weeds. Dandelions spread for a reason. Sure there are craters on my skin that don’t glow like the moon, and the bags under my eyes are heavier than the bag I carry on my back, but so what? Who likes a house that doesn’t look lived in? Just think of the crude words that come from my mouth, all for the sake of seeing you shift uncomfortably in your seat, as sour skittles. The harshness only lasts for a little while. The desert dry cracks on my lips mean nothing to me and should mean nothing to you. At least my lips have the privilege of touching someone’s pillow-soft ones every night. Try as you might. Break my fragile glass heart and uproot the garden I’ve planted so carefully in the crevices of my mind. I have the tools to rebuild myself bigger and better than before.