Do you know why I love her? Because she’s flawed. Because she isn’t perfect - she isn’t even close. Because she has a scar on her chin. Because she can’t ever get her hair just the way she wants it. Because of the way her toes weren’t made for wearing sandals, and because she’s more like her mother than she’d like to admit. Because she cries when she’s angry but laughs when she’s scared, because she smokes though she shouldn’t and cares more about what other people think than she’d ever let on. Because she can’t drive stick and admits that she still feels lonely sometimes. I love her because she likes brown eyes and broken things, because she took me in when she knew she shouldn’t. Because she loves hard and fast, with wicked edge and barbed feeling. Because I would never change a thing.