You tell me I'm not perfect, that I'm beautiful.
I cry,
my imperfection is blatant.
How can I be beautiful?
You call me beautiful, anyway;
you see how I've gotten better,
when all I see is the bad that I am.
I love you.
You see right through me.
You see right through me.
You see me.
You really do see me.
Could you lend me your eyes?
I am blind...
