Chipped Polish

Her polish is always peeling,
tiny chips of red
scattered on the floor.
Her fine blonde hair
falls in messy waves.

This is who she is.

She exists this way,
with her inquisitive green eyes
that belie
struggle and abandon.
He sees her this way,
with the scars
made from injury
and heart break.
He sees her earring
brush her neck
and the upturn
of the right corner
of her mouth.

These imperfections
are what creates her,
what brands her
into his soul.
Somehow, her wrongs radiate
with purity
and he can’t breathe
when he looks at how
perfect all of her flaws
can be.

When he remembers her,
it is those
chipped and chewed
nails at the ends of her fingers,
the way they looked
curled in his hands.

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4 thoughts on “Chipped Polish

  1. This reminds me of how my love talks of me. He loves me, despite the imperfections, FOR the imperfections, even. Because that is who I am. That is who we all are. 🙂

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    • It is lovely to hear that! It’s not often we can find people who love us in such a way. This poem is how I wish he and others saw me. I’m not in their minds, so I don’t really know how they see me. I hope they see me like this. 🙂

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      • This is SO true. I am so blessed to have found someone who thinks of me this way….he is the only person I have ever found that has done so, and I had to go through much heartache to do so. But it was worth it. And I am sure they do! It is the good and rare people who do so. Find them and keep them as close as you can.

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