I am not perfect

"You are not perfect.
You are not absolute, in fact, sometimes you are a liability. You are a cup of tea, warm, with honey or milk and fingers wrapped loosely around a white china cup that will certainly grow cold if you spend too much time laughing and not enough sipping. You are like the greyest sky with no sun in sight, but still bursting full of opportunities. You are a pile of hair too tired to be anything else but loose that morning and lovely nonetheless. You are summer, or maybe spring, because summer is awfully bright and insistent and spring is a gentler season. You are a collapsed lung on your bad days, but let me point out that you could make it to the top of Everest on your best days. You are fingers stained with blackberry juice and dirt smudged across your forehead. You are clumsy, tripping over everything always, even your words. You are not very poetic, but somehow you seem to capture the moon in half your smile anyway, but only if the right person is looking, so maybe you're not poetic all of the time, only some of it. You are flawed, simple as that, flawed. You are a piece of sea glass, once you could cut to the quick, and now you're just smooth from the hours and days and years of waves that never give up. You are broken in some places, and sweetheart let me tell you, I can see the cracks because they spill over when you think I'm not looking. You are a mess, even on what seems like the least tragic of days, you still drag around everything you shouldn't. You are the one passed by, the neighbor girl unnoticed for years, the boy in the background, the secret savior. You are vulnerable, telling everyone you don't wear your heart on your sleeve while all this time it's been written in the crease of your elbow, and that's obvious too, just so you know. You are replaceable, not to all, but to many. You are forgotten, a name that a face can't be put to. You are deliberately late. You are inconsiderate and rash and oftentimes undeniably mean. You are good intentions misunderstood. You are that lonely kid always at the table by himself. You are nonsensical. You are a box that arrived two weeks too late in the post, yet somehow you're just as special to open up anyway. You are not giving enough. You are frail. You are a piece of pine, and dang it all you wish you were olive wood because it's so much more foreign and wondrous. You are plain. You are someone he could walk away from if he chose to. You are the single bad grade that ruins the year. You are like an argument that hides in a pocket of thoughts that she'll never forget. You are trivial. You are unimportant. You are snow, but not the light, airy stuff that just fell and everyone loves, no, you're the slush that is laying there uselessly on day three and after it rained. You are in the gutter some days. You are lost. You are a basket that was woven with crooked corners and no one knows quite what to do with you. You are a mountain, and sometimes you're in the way. You are a blue knit scarf that looks absolutely lovely, but see, you could almost wrap around twice, but you didn't quite make it and so you're rarely worn. You are just a friend. You are walked all over again and again and again, and you let it happen. You are a run in the best pair of black nylons she ever had. You are like gelato, but sometimes you melt a little too quickly. You are unhelpful at times. You are not worth the effort on a daily basis. You are unfair. You really aren't all that wonderful.
You are not perfect. But that's okay.
You don't have to be."