I love how
Paint chips off the
Walls of this house
And how my sneakers
Are dirtied,
Maybe even torn at the edges
With their laces in fringed bouquets
Or how
My friendship bracelets are tarnished
And my books have coffee-stained, tampered pages
And I don't mind you
Bruised
Or scratched,
Speckled with flaws,
With wrinkles when you smile
Or your childhood memory's scars
Or the dark circles under your eyes
Or your rough hands
Because
You've been worked to the bone
And
There is nothing more beautiful than something that has served it's purpose.