Damian: Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a real girl.
Mara: Bitch my mustache is bushier than yours!
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If you think you like The Weeknd more than a Middle Eastern girl, you don’t.
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I love her.
She's so breathtakingly beautiful, even the most beautiful flower can't compare to her.
Each reddish brown strand of hair on her head is curled to perfection.
Her eyes, two large dark orbs reflecting the moonlight. Even Bambi would be jealous.
Her nose, defined with a high nose bridge and a small nose tip, passed on from generation to generation.
Her lips are soft and big, the lower lip bigger than the upper lip. They look like pinkish-brown pillows.
She's incredibly smart. Oh, she's so smart.
There's not one book in her little library that she hasn't read at least twice. In each book she hid a little note, marking her favorite passages.
Whenever her friends or family need help or advice, they ask her. After all, she's the therapist amongst her loved ones.
She remained strong after all those hardships she had to go through. Her voice could bring world peace, if only she spoke up more often.
But, oh, who's going to tell her that she's the prettiest amongst all flowers?
That her hair looks like silky dark waves running down her tan back?
That her eyes shine brighter than the brightest star?
That her strong nose and her luscious lips are a result of her parents' facial features, her grandparents' and even her grand-grandparents'? That it's something to be proud of?
Or that she's the smartest woman I've ever met?
The one whose voice alone could bring people back from the dead?
That her thoughts and ideas inspire people? Heal them? Save them?
For she cannot see all those things.
When she looks in the mirror, all she sees is that little, messy looking, dumb broken girl that she once was.
Oh, if only she could see herself the way I see her.
But I cannot tell her, I am her. In the future, once she's healed from all her unspoken pain.
I love her.
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