when I look in the mirror
I don't see magic in my eyes
I don't see the fire that,
obviously, you do
I see none of the passion,
the caring, the nurturing instinct
you love in me.
in fact, I see none of what
you love in me.
I see no beauty,
at least none of the kind your eyes pick up.
I see no cuteness,
no perfect curves,
no gentle, positive softness
but hard angles
and baby fat
and too much height
and hair that hurts to look at
eyes that hold too much sadness,
hands that have indulged in
too many sins.
but while I think you're
a blind fool not to see my flaws
or crazy to think they make me
all the more perfect,
I acknowledge that you must
think
  I'm blind not to see my beauty
  and a fool to think it's flawed
I'm not damaged goods to you
I'm—
what did you say?—
a near-perfect diamond.