These are the old scars. These are the dew drops in my hair when I’ve been out all night. These are all the flaws, the imperfections, and the beauties. The pin pricks and thin red lines and emptiness. The bow off the dead roses the beautiful parts of the ugly things. The times I’ve fallen and cried but then come to love the marks and bruises later. Like scars from some battle fought with an unseen enemy, the ground. The things I replaced with objects because I couldn’t have the emotional, only the physical. The things I grew to love, in that I only ever hated them too much. These are all the ugly cliches, the shootings stars, the ‘moments,’ the gossip. The tissue paper from the empty gift box, and the thing that I must have forgot once came inside it. The things that are only relevant now because they never mattered before, and now, now everything is different. The birthday parties on the wrong days, and all the wasted words. All the beautiful things that come out of the bad. These are the things I’ve done so wrong they’ve become right. I shouldn’t be finding them in someone else. Reflected like I’m seeing some part of me that I didn’t want to. I shouldn’t be opening up my eyes now and not understanding. All these things are mine, my losses and gains and I shouldn’t find them in someone elses green eyes, I shouldn’t. And when I do, I shouldn’t like it.
Ok. Now tell me. It's your turn.