You're Imperfect In Your Flaws

You're begging for someone to fix you; you're imperfect in your flaws.

I've forgotten how to look at you with objectivity; I've spent too many wasted nights saving you from yourself. I've forgotten how to look at your life as a whole; I've spent so much time trying to fade that disheartening line between then and now in your own thoughts that it's become a permanent fixture in mine.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when you were young, when you had awkward rookie legs - all length and no coordination, all excitement and no deliberation.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when you were happy, when you had a crooked, mischievous smile - all contradictory teeth and invisible dimples.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when the world was yours, when you had a promise that you wore on your sleeve - all determination and certainty.

I desperately want to forget how you look now that you've barely started your life, when you're callous - all hip bones and scars, all melancholy and marijuana cigarettes.

I desperately want to forget how you look when you're happy, when you have a crooked scheming smile, when you're happy due to pain, when you're happy due to your own massacre.

I desperately want to forget how you look when you fall, when your eyes can't hold my own, when the only promises you hold are the vodka in your veins and the disappointment in your heart.

I've forgotten how to fix you; you're imperfect in your flaws.