i am made of flaws,
stitched together by good intentions;
but it’s hard to stay intact, when you constantly rip at my seams.
you pull and tug, until i become unravelled,
and i'm just a piece of string,
that you shove in your pocket.
and, much like string, i'm useless on my own;
i need to tie myself to someone.
but you and i, tied ourselves together too quickly
and, like my hair that you always nagged me to brush,
we became more knotted, more tangled with time.
but as time went on, we insisted that we were fine,
we could just use our fingers;
but it wasn’t until we stood at the mirror,
staring at our own matted destruction,
that we realized:
no comb could possibly be strong enough
to make us beautiful again.