Everything is changing,
but your haircut still looks the same.

I've never really loved the look of "perfect" on a person.

But I've loved crooked teeth
and chapped lips
and the rips in his sweater
and calloused palms
and acne scars along his jawbone
and eyes that are slightly slanted upward
and pant legs that are too short
and watches worn with the time set two minutes early
and hair that always looks the same
and loud voices in libraries
and quiet whispers at crowded parties
and twisted ****** expressions
and dilated pupils
and the way too much of his gum shows when he smiles
and beauty marks in secret places
and the same white t-shirt worn over and over again
and eye colours that are indistinguishable
and cold, blank stares at 3 am
and hopeful stares at the break of dawn
and messy writing that's hard to read
and untied shoe laces
and lisps
and stutters
and jeans worn too low
and fists that make holes in walls
and breath that reeks of coffee
and lips that taste of tobacco
and eyelids that are heavy after a long day
and fading bruises
and bushy eyebrows
and clumsy feet
and hunched postures
and hands that are always too cold
and bandages stuck onto odd places
and cologne that's a little too strong...

 because I think that showing what is imperfect is what makes a person worth loving.

There are many things I can tell you, and many things I cannot.
The amount of battles I've won is much less than the ones I've fought.
But I've got lots of knowledge buried inside my skull
Some of which is morbid, but most of which is dull.

I can tell you how to sweep the kitchen floor without leaving behind crumbs,
I can tell you how to twist a doorknob without using your thumbs.
I can tell you how to get to Union Station from the West-bound train,
I can teach you different pranks that will drive your brother insane.

I can tell you how to sear small burns into your delicate skin,
I can name you all the different pills that will make you thin.
I can tell you how to hurt yourself in places no one will find,
I can tell you how to arrange your coke into a perfect line.

But there are things I cannot say, for I have not discovered:
How to find hope, how to be kind, or how to be a lover.
I'm still learning how to drive my car in standard,
And I'm still trying to figure out how to behave in a polite manner.

Every day I learn, and every day I fail
But my burning desire for growth will always prevail.

Because although I am destructive and ill and cold
And though I am young and foolish and bold
I am still looking forward to what the future will hold
Because there are many things I can tell you, and many things to be told.