In others,
I look for imperfections.
It is the small scar or the patch of freckles,
that I remember on lovers lost.
I have come to the conclusion,
that I love those imperfections,
because only then can I look past my own.

My amazing wealth of imperfections.
The way my right eye always appears off in photos.
One side of my upper lip is slightly plumper than the other.
Collar bones which protrude too far.
Teeth that have been stained from years of coffee consumption.
Self-inflicted scars that mar my torso.
The stretch marks that I am so incredibly ashamed of.

And the fat.
The fat that bothers me so.
It hangs from every part of my body.
hips, underarms, thighs, calves, face, stomach
There is no escape.
It screams out at me every time I peer into the mirror.

How can they tell me I am beautiful?
Can't they see my imperfections?
My loathsome appearance?
The massive flaws that make me hideous?
Or are they blind to those things?
How can so many men be blind to my imperfections?