You spent hours time and time again painting your lips red and dyeing your cheeks pink. You mask your blue eyes believing that it is an anomaly in a sea of black irises. The universe never had a chance to see you in your simplest form for you have kept it prisoner in the musty corners of your dimly lit bedroom.

When you were eight, you loved wearing loose shirts, jeans and snickers. You play and never mind that you got your favourite blue rubber shoes dirty or that you are a walking mess. You thought, even with all those dirt, that you are pretty. You are. Still is.

A knife is buried under your pillow. You got tired counting how many times it has kissed your pale skin or the litters of blood you could have used to save the life of some random stranger. You curse those scars in your wrist for they remind you of your failed attempts at eternal rest. You hate yourself for being so ordinary, when in actuality you are a limited edition.

You are beautiful and you need not beg for him to tell you that you are. You have always been exquisite but you let others think that you are some nuisance, a burden the world needs to get rid of. My dearest, you are no scrap, not even a by product of something more majestic. You are pretty just as you are, even with the flaws you try so badly to conceal. You are an artwork deserving to be an exhibit’s pride and joy. You are God’s masterpiece. Never for once doubt that.