It's ironic that I envy your imperfections.
The laughter lines around your eyes,
the scars speckling your skin in places too random to be deliberate,
your sun-stained skin,
the constellation of freckles dusting your shoulders and your nose.
They paint the story of your life and yours is a masterpiece.
You've had adventures and misfortunes,
laughter and loss.
You have a story behind every scar,
from falling off your bike at age 7 to falling in love at age 23.

I'm the night to your day.

I live behind a pane of glass watching the world spin round and round.
The sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes;
they just never quite reach me in my fragile, claustrophobic world,
because there's a difference between breathing and stopping to smell the roses.
My skin has no stories,
except for the wars I've waged upon myself in bathroom stalls with silver arrows.
I hide in my glass house covered in clothes,
not to hide my secrets,
but so I can pretend I have stories just like yours.

The world spins by but nobody sees me cry.
Nobody sees me at all.