I love the honest ones. The ones who don't hide their warts. The ones who will tell you exactly how they are when you ask.
I love the broken ones. The ones who have scuff marks and don't hide them. The ones who are more beautiful for their cracks.
I love the imperfect ones. The ones who can't draw a straight line. The ones who will tell you that they don't do everything right the first time, the second time, and maybe even the last time.
I love the fierce ones. The ones who are hard to love. The ones you break on like an ocean wave.
I love the messy ones. The ones who leave chaos in their wake. The ones who are surrounded by a cloud of uncertainty.
I love the unlovable, the unsociable, the hermit, the runt, the dirty kid with the freckles.
It's perfection and neatness and order that make me suspicious. I don't trust someone who is neatly ironed and always ready early. I don't think such a thing really truly exists - and the ones who put that out there are spending an awful lot of time creating a facade.
Real is unkempt. It is unruly. It is loud. It is lapped over the edges of the box. Real is beautiful to me because it's how and who I always want to be.