Imperfections

You say that you love my eyes. The way they seem to change color when my mood changes, or the way that one is a little greener than the other and the way that they crease in the corners when I laugh. And when I’m done laughing, you say that you love the way that my voice sounds – just a little raspy.

What you don’t know is that I’m very self-conscious of my eyes. People have always pointed out the way that one is another color from the other. I know that you think it’s endearing, but when you point it out, I take it as criticism – a criticism that I can’t even take to fix. And when I laugh really hard, I snort. And my voice is something that I’ve always found to be too deep. I especially hate it when it’s raspy because it makes me squeak.

You say that you love my smile. How straight and white my teeth are and how my lips are neither too big nor too small, so just the right amount of my “perfect teeth” are shown. And my lips, you say, are perfect for when we kiss. Mine mold perfectly to each crease in yours.

What you don’t know is how long I sit in the mirror and obsess over my teeth. I pull my cheeks sideways and out and up and down examining each misaligned piece of bone and the height of my gums. And my lips, well I think they’re the way that they are because you also don’t know that I spend 10’s of dollars a month on multiple tubes of Chapstick. And when I’m bored, I can be caught putting it on, taking it off, and putting it back on again.

You say that you love my care free spirit. The way that I’ll do things on a whim or the way that I don’t care what others think of me. How I’m not afraid of anything and I’ll never let anything stop me from being happy.

What you don’t know is that I don’t have a carefree spirit. Maybe I’ll do things on a whim, but I’m terrified of everything. I’m terrified of being judged, of people that dress up, spiders, snakes, and the ocean. Of getting sick and of dying. And when I’m sick, I spend hours on Google, crying to myself, panicking that I have some disease.

You say that you love my hair. The length, the color, the softness. The way that you can rake your fingers through it and the way that it frames my face

What you don’t know is that I’ve dyed my hair so many times that I don’t even know what its natural color is. The length changes frequently because I can never decide on a length and I cut it so frequently. It takes hours of straightening it to make it so that it frames my face the way that you like it and I’ve used so many different hair products to make it soft just for you.

You say that you love me. But how can you when what you think is perfect about me is really the source of all of my imperfections?