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The first person I ever loved was not myself, but him, and maybe that was my biggest mistake. I learned to love the dimples on his cheeks, and the lines under his eyes when he smiled. I learned to love the way his eyes turned angry when he screamed into my face, to love the way his hands tightened around my arms. I loved the way his lips lingered on my skin after begging me to peel off my layers of my clothes. I dug up every little piece of who he was, and planted it inside my heart. I kept love for him every where I went, and even when he left me, my heart was still full. I had put so much effort into loving him, that I forgot to love myself. I saw no beauty unless the beauty I saw was his eyes, I saw no greater happiness, than when I saw his smile. So whenever I looked in the mirror, I felt numb, I felt hate. I could not love the freckles on my cheeks, even though I connected his like stars in the sky. I could not love the way my hair got wavy when it was damp, even though I always twirled pieces of his hair in my fingers. I could not feel sweet melancholy when tears ran down my face, but I could when I wiped away his. I could not get undressed and look at my skin, because it was only worth looking at when he looked. I could not love myself, because I thought it was suppose to be fulfilled by someone else. I had become nothing but a daisy, waiting for my petals to be picked, he loves me, he loves me not. I only ever felt love, when it was given to me by someone else. I could not feel love if it was given to me by myself. Yet all this has taught me a lesson, maybe it’s so easy to love someone else, and so hard to love yourself, because that’s who deserves every ounce of your love; yourself.

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