We’re the kind of art Pablo Picasso strived to create. Freckled with imperfections, our spotted complexions somehow manage to give way to a smile… forcing the masses to marvel at our happiness because for some reason, only pretty girls are supposed to be happy? When God created us he followed a pre-planned out dot-to-dot drawing book, our edges sharp, at times leaving us alone in our own minds wishing for his hands to create lesions, because sometimes we get tired of these uneven shapes our bodies are forced to display, as if the echoed words “love yourself” are enough to wash away the names that’ve been thrown our way, and eventually we become too tired to dodge them everyday, so we stop. We stop dodging the boulders being hurled in our direction and we are able to see that we never realized, we’re the ones pitching these oversized pebbles. We’ve been so focused on finding the flaws in someone else that at some point, it became impossible to tell who we were even picking apart anymore, because we’re all made up of the same skin, the same kin. But no one ever told us that after we picked ourselves apart, after gripping each flaw and laying it down right in front of us atop the ground we stand on, would we realize that God used up all the glue back when he forged our limbs to our spine, and our spine to our minds that would someday betray all the beauty we blindly haul around. So here we are, paper dolls of people dragging around our crumpled paper hearts on leashes because if we let them roam free, they’d run away, they’d run away from you and me and from everyone else who’s ever pelted themselves with those oversized pebbles, but just this once I’ll let you in on a secret. We don’t need glue to re-assemble all these monumental flaws, just a love for yourself sticky enough to hold our parts in place long enough for our hearts to take over the mending job.