Beauty is Imperfections

I hate the phrase, "You're perfect." 

It haunts my every conversation with boys I thought were different.

When I ask you what you like about me, do not answer "Everything."

My father taught me from childhood to recognize the sound of lies,

and so I am impervious to the trivialities you feed countless other women.

I am not perfect.

I am a flawed and imperfect person and I love it that way.

When I ask you what makes me beautiful, be honest.

Acknowledge the stormy shade of my irises, 

the freckles smattered like connectable dots across my face.

Tell me how you'd like to touch each one so you might better know me,

as if each contains a secret I am unable to share.

Time has taught us that hiding our imperfects, our uniquenesses,

makes us beautiful.

But like with so many things,

how can you see beauty without comparison. 

Without darkness there is no light.

Without silence there is no sound.

So tell me, when did beauty become perfection without flaw? 

How would you notice the height of my cheek bones were it not for the width of my nose? 

Could you possibly see the ample curves of my figure,

without the rolls that come with them? 

Beauty is a concept we have long since stopped observing through honest eyes.

It has become common practice for girls to ask questions they are afraid to know the answers to.

So when she asks you if these jeans make her butt look big,

be honest.

Tell her yes. 

Then tell her that the bigness of her butt balances the thinness of her waist.

Tell her the color of her jeans compliments her skin tone. 

And when she stares at you in shock because for once you've answered honestly,

tell her she is beautiful. 

Not perfect.

Just beautiful.