I am not perfect. Do not ever mistake me for the plastic, disgusting perfection you want to see me as. Call me lovely, wonderful, amazing – if you want to get crazy – but do not ever mistake me, a piece of artwork that does not fit to everyone’s taste, for perfect.
These thoughts splitting me open and making me bang my head on the walls for a little bit out outer turmoil to shake things up are not perfect. My laugh, marred and changing and I swear it’s never quite the same, is not perfect. My kisses, my touch, my love is not fucking perfect and I will not take the misconception of that.