Don't romanticize life.
Dirt is dirt.
Ugly is ugly.
Trees burn.
And sometimes things are ****.

Nobody's perfect.
Especially you.
Nothing is perfect.
Especially your perfect eyes.
And how you laid perfectly with your head in my lap.
And how you perfectly stared at that purple octogon on the wall.
And how I called you perfect.
Imperfect.

Don't romanticize those books you read.
I could burn every copy.
Don't exaggerate how much you love that author.
I could shoot him in the chest.
Don't talk about a greater good.
I know we don't have one.

You.
Don't have one.

Selfish.
Skinny.
Pale girl.
With imperfect perfect eyes.