My mother once casually remarked on how I have a fascination for things that are not so perfect, not so complete. On how the pet I adopted was a pup with a limp. On how nearly all paintings in my room are collages. On how I choose not to repair the small crack on my phone. On how paint peeling off the walls of my house don’t bother me.
But, Mother, if I really have a crazy fetish for incomplete things, if I really find perfections in imperfections, then Mother, why am I not able to love myself?


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