This is another free-writing exercise like Cold. Shorter though. Tell me what you think. She’s not perfect, but I can’t bring myself to dwell on her flaws. In light of the happiness that comes with just seeing her face, they seem so insignificant, She blinds me with the beauty she can’t see. And it isn’t just physical beauty, but mental. Emotional. The ability to make everything else unimportant in her presence. Her flaws are merely pores in her skin. They may be there- millions of them- but they are too small to notice. And they are necessary. They let her breathe, keep her alive. Make her real. Then there’s me. My flaws. Like a shotgun-blast to the head. So obvious, so noticeable. So painful. Now everything that was once good about me oozes out of my wounds with a thick, red consistency. My broken heart pumps harder and harder, faster and faster, but just serves to catalyze my destruction. The more I try the quicker I fade away. Now I lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Covered in bleeding, festering sores. Unwanted, unneeded. Unloved. Forgotten.