Flaws And Scars Quotes

I find flaws attractive. I find scars attractive.

Mr. Freeman: You are getting better at this, but it's not good enough. This looks like a tree,but it is an average, ordinary, everyday, boring tree. Breathe life into it. Make it bend - trees are flexible, so they don't snap. Scar it, give it a twisted branch - perfect trees don't exist. Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.

By opening our hearts, revealing our scars, we are made human and flawed and whole.

Make it bend — trees are flexible, so they don’t snap. Scar it, give it a twisted branch — perfect trees don’t exist. Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.

A scar is not always a flaw. Sometimes a scar may be redemption inscribed in the flesh, a memorial to something endured, to something lost.

To be acceptable is for one to ignore his weakness while knowing his strength, to cover the scar even though it's always there, however, to be impossible is for one to see his weakness as, not an adversary, but the cherry on top of his strength, to rearrange the scar so that it compliments his features.

Clary shut her eyes. You didn't say no to an angel, no matter what it had in mind. Her heart pounding, she sat floating in the darkness behind her eyelids, resolutely trying not to think of Jace. But his face appear against the blank screen of her closed eyelids anyway - not smiling at her but looking sidelong, and she could see the scar at his temple, the uneven curl at the corner of his mouth, and the silver line on his throat where Simon had bitten him - all the marks and flaws and imperfections that made up the person she loved most in the world. Jace. A bright light lit her vision to scarlet, and she fell back against the sand, wondering if she was going to pass out - or maybe she was dying - but she didn't want to die, not now that she could see Jace's face so clearly in front of her. She could almost hear his voice, too, saying her name, the way he'd whispered it at Renwick's, over and over again. Clary. Clary. Clary. "Clary," Jace said. "Open your eyes.

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It's the scar you feel for, the flaw you can't stop seeing. It's the tender place that won't bear weight. It's a void.

Kiss your scars. Fall in love with them. They ought to serve as life-affirming reminders—a lingering trace of hope. The only reason we have these scars is because we survived and are still here.

The mindset of loss of a loved one is to understand that the loss will never be undone. You must live with it, like it or not. But, to live well, you must turn that loss into something positive. That way, you can become the best version of yourself; scarred, flawed and unstoppable

Someone very wise once told me that by opening our hearts, revealing our scars, we are made human and flawed and whole.

You could say I am flawed. Marked. A malfetto. While my sister emerged from the fever unscathed, I now have only a scar where my left eye used to be. While my sister’s hair remained a glossy black, the strands of my hair and lashes turned a strange, ever-shifting silver, so that in the sunlight they look close to white, like a winter moon, and in the dark they change to a deep gray, shimmering silk spun from metal.

I would care that someone understood we were flawed and scarred and doing the best we could in this war. We were wrapped up in things that were so much bigger than ourselves. We didn't know. We didn't mean to. It wasn't our fault.

What could she tell him? I notice everything about him, from his flawed nose to his battle scars to his eyes as blue as an upland lake at midsummer. Sometimes I see the boy he would have been had it not been for his life at Ragmarket. He wears his pain on his face in unguarded moments; at other times, I can see just how dangerous he is. No, she couldn't say any of that.

They were perfect. They were flawed. They were scarred and beautiful. They were too familiar with death and clung to life by clinging to one another. The Great Buchanans were only human, after all.

I love you for what you are Though your heart bears scars From life's harsh tempests I would not wish it unblemished Each wound carved your strength Suffering gave you wisdom These flaws make you perfect

I said I'm selfish, I'm a liar and I'm broken Shit runs through my head every day that I would never tell anyone You're just like me The only difference is that I'm honest enough to scream my flaws in the lines of this song

A good book is never exhausted. It goes on whispering to you from the wall. Books perfume and give weight to a room. A bookcase is as good as a view, as the sight of a city or a river. There are dawns and sunsets in books - storms, fogs, zephyrs. I read about a family whose apartment consists of a series of spaces so strictly planned that they are obliged to give away their books as soon as they've read them. I think they have misunderstood the way books work. Reading a book is only the first step in the relationship. After you've finished it, the book enters on its real career. It stand there as a badge, a blackmailer, a monument, a scar. It's both a flaw in the room, like a crack in the plaster, and a decoration. The contents of someone's bookcase are part of his history, like an ancestral portrait. - in "About books; recoiling, rereading, retelling", The New York Times, February 22, 1987

But here’s the remarkable thing about self-love: When you start to love yourself for the first time, when you start to truly embrace who you are—flaws and all—your scars start to look a lot more like beauty marks. The words that used to haunt you transform into badges of pride.

There is no better people-watching than at the airport: the whole world packed into such a tight space, moving fast with all their essentials in their rolling bags. And what caught my attention, as I took a few breaths and lay my eyes on the crowds, were all the imperfections. Everybody had them. Every single person that walked past me had some kind of flaw. Bushy eyebrows, moles, flared nostrils, crooked teeth, crows'-feet, hunched backs, dowagers' humps, double chins, floppy earlobes, nose hairs, potbellies, scars, nicotine stains, upper arm fat, trick knees, saddlebags, collapsed arches, bruises, warts, puffy eyes, pimples. Nobody was perfect. Not even close. And everybody had wrinkles from smiling and squinting and craning their necks. Everybody had marks on their bodies from years of living - a trail of life left on them, evidence of all the adventures and sleepless nights and practical jokes and heartbreaks that had made them who they were. In that moment, I suddenly loved us all the more for our flaws, for being broken and human, for being embarrassed and lonely, for being hopeful or tired or disappointed or sick or brave or angry. For being who we were, for making the world interesting. It was a good reminder that the human condition is imperfection. And that's how it's supposed to be.

She doesn’t need to pretend with me, though. She doesn’t need to hide. I’m here, and I see her—every scar, every flaw, every broken, hollow piece. And I understand.

It is easy to love someone when they are perfect, when they are soft and light, when they are filled with hope and happiness. But loving someone when they are wearing their flaws like an apology, when they are breaking down, or when they are carrying hurt within them—that is when it means the most. That is when you must show up for them.

♥Each scar, dent, flaw, bald spots, clumsiness♥ represent life♥ fighting the fight 2 live♥ We Will Win #Brain Tumor Thursday on Twitter

When you said my name . . . the stone within me suffered a crack. And I don't regret that it did, because I had forgotten how vital it is to be known for who you are, and not for who you pretend to be. I had forgotten how good it is to be seen, even with flaws and scars. I wanted you to see me.

His wounds now bear scars, and those scars dull all feeling. You may see that as a flaw, but I assure you, just as the body will protect what was damaged, so too will the soul.

I just want to be able to say without hesitation that I lived my life, that I did not just take a back seat to my pain, or to my flaws

Two sides of the puzzle come together to form a union that seems protected in perfection and unscathed by life. Here, together, we don't have pasts that scar us or baggage that weighs us down with burdens and regrets. Here, together, our flawed souls find solace in each other. Here, together, we make sense.

Exactly. You don't look at that damaged, weathered, worn-out tree and see it flawed, do you? Our scars are simply the marks of our stories. They show we've lived a great life, and most of all that we have survived it. Don't hide your story away in the shadows.

Quicker than I ever hoped, I land at the other side of my illness: slightly battle-scarred, slightly hungrier, and a little wiser. I have flaws. I live with restrictions. I have to change. But those sacrifices now seem easy to make, knowing what they will give me. I feel as though I, too, have shed some leaves: those last shreds of belief in my youthful robustness, when I could do anything, endure anything, and bounce back.

Would I be able to straighten out the errors and mistakes and save all of us? I didn't grasp the depth and weight of this question. It was true that I desperately wanted to save all of us. No one deserves to die, to despair, to be suppressed, and to be despised. On top of that, they were my friends. We might've had our flaws and scars and have been twisted up and distorted. We might've been nobodies. But we were alive. We had days to live, plans to follow, and dreams to fulfill.

Scars are not flaws. They can be badges of honor. They can be marks of survival. They can be proof of a person’s craft. But never flaws. All these scars you have speak of your drive, skill, resilience, and fierceness.

Tonight I saw the entire truth in his eyes, the panic, the fear, the pain, the desire, and the love. He didn’t care if I was too thin, or not thin enough. He didn’t see my scars as ugly, he didn’t want my face hidden behind layers of makeup. Jax wanted me as I was, broken, flawed and honest. And never before had I been so utterly consumed and owned as I was by Jax.

We are nothing without them, our scars and our blemishes. Take away our delusional smiles if you must, snatch away our illusory happiness if you must, but please leave us our flaws for we do not wish to exist without them.

She understood him with the knowing and not-knowing that comes of being a child. When you focus on your parent as if they are the center of the earth, that thing on which your survival depends, only later do you realize their flaws, their scars, and their weaknesses.

by opening our hearts, revealing our scars, we are made human and flawed and whole. I guess I’m ready to be whole.

I am flawed, scarred and a beautiful mess.

LOSE someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It’s the scar you feel for, the flaw you can’t stop seeing. It’s the tender place that won’t bear weight. It’s a void.

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It’s the scar you feel for, the flaw you can’t stop seeing. It’s the tender place that won’t bear weight. It’s a void.

Where you see scars I see art Where you see flaws I see incredible beauty Where you see failures I see knowledge and growth Everything is perception You see with your eyes I see with my soul It’s how you rock And how I roll.

Hideous, aren’t they?” His voice startles me, and I realize I must have been quiet for a while. I notice how his jaw tightens. I shake my head. “Not to me.” I can’t stop myself from reaching up, sliding my fingers down the four jagged scars above his brow. Finally, the single one that mars his cheek. “Your scars aren’t flaws, Galloway. They’re not imperfections. They’re stories written on your skin.” “Stories?” It sounds like he thinks the idea is silly. “Aye,” I say. “They tell the tale of how you survived. There’s no shame in that.

Sometimes I think the biggest challenge in talking about the church is telling ourselves the truth about it—acknowledging the scars, staring down the ugly bits, marveling at its resiliency, and believing that this flawed and magnificent body is enough, for now, to carry us through the world and into the arms of Christ.

I knew a woman was never supposed to admit when she thought she was beautiful. It was a mortal sin. Everyone hates a woman who likes how she looks, and women are especially reviled if they’re flawed and still have the balls to feel beautiful. Covered in scars, not the right shape, wrong hair—whatever. You’re supposed to feel bad about it. So I just kept my thoughts about it to myself. I was scarred; I was beautiful, and I didn’t need to know what anyone else thought about the matter.

I know he’s just a man. A man with flaws. A man with his own problems. And I know he can’t solve my problem. Not really. He can’t fix what’s wrong with me. Nobody can. They can’t even understand. But being around him, it makes me feel things, things I’ve missed just as much as the music and the laughter, things that make me feel alive again.

In Japanese pottery, there’s an artful form of repair called kintsugi. When a piece of ceramic pottery breaks, rather than trying to restore it to its original condition, the artisan accentuates the fault by using gold to fill the crack. This beautifully draws attention to where the work was broken, creating a golden vein. Instead of the flaw diminishing the work, it becomes a focal point, an area of both physical and aesthetic strength. The scar also tells the story of the piece, chronicling its past experience.

As a scar is the mark of pride to a warrior, So is sometimes the flaw in a hero’s character!

His wolf was now officially on board with bedding of the human who lay in their arms. She was no longer scarred. No longer flawed in a way that wasn’t desirable to his beast.

you’d even rather have a failed real person than a successful one, as blemishes, scars, and character flaws increase the distance between a human and a ghost.

He was so beautiful. Lips parted, eyes sharp, his focus fixed entirely on me. Every angle of his face, every scar, every flaw. Perfect.

He would talk, and I would talk, and he would talk, and each of our words sounded out the deepest secret depths inside us. There are some forms of love that words can do no justice to. There are some scars that can't be seen. Perfection is in itself an imperfection. He had flaws. He was sick. He needed help. Is not everyone sick, at one time or another? That was part of his beauty, his sickness. If he had not been sick, he would not have been beautiful, in the way that consumptives are, burning themselves up in brilliant flashes of light . . . I don't expect you to be able to understand. Love is strong enough to resurrect the dead. I don't like the word scar, because it implies intent and blame. A soul as powerful as his had to burn. I have never known a love like this. You don't know. I would have done anything at all for him. You don't know. It feels so goddamn good to be needed, to have someone tell you that he has a gaping hole in him whose shape is made to fit you . . . I saw that he was burning a piece of art on me, a signature on my psyche because it filled the hole in his own, and he wanted to make me his.

Have you ever thought for once that when you look in the mirror you are hyper aware of your flaws? When the rest of us may see something different. Like a teenager with a pimple. She doesn't focus on her beautiful eyes and cute lips, she zeros in on the one tiny flaw and goes nuts over it." He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling. "You need to stop obsessing over your scars. It's only a quarter of your face and I can't tell you the last time I noticed.

We call that real problem the SHARD OF GLASS. It's a psychological wound that has been festering beneath the surface of your hero for a long time. The skin has grown over it, leaving behind an unsightly scar that causes your hero to act in the way they act and make the mistakes that they do (flaws!). You, as the author and creator of this world, have to decide how this shard of glass got there. Why is your hero so flawed? What happens to them to make them the way they are?

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It's the scar you feel for, the flaw you can't stop seeing. It's the tender place that won't bear weight. It's a void... When you lose someone, you see them everywhere in a hundred different ways. I will think of her when I go to an art museum, or a dog park. On a blank canvas. When I eat a buttermilk biscuit.

The issue here is that we tend to believe that darkness is the enemy in this world. It's not. The enemy in this world is that extremely blinding light that says, "You are flawed, you have dark patches on your face, you have cuts on your fingers, you have scars on your feet, and look, everyone can see all of that here in this light! There's nowhere to hide any of that here! Everyone can see it! You don't belong here!" A blinding light where there is no place for people to hide. That's the great evil in this world. A useless light, one that does not know that light is only useful when it is placed in the darkness! It's not darkness that is the enemy. We have vilified people's scars, people's wounds, and people's hiding places and we have told them that they don't belong "out here like that." Instead of going in there where they are, lighting a candle, and saying, "thanks for letting me inside".

HE LIES ON HIS BACK. I run a finger along the fence of dark hair that partitions his torso from navel to chest. “I like your body,” I tell him. He sighs and smiles. “Don’t,” he says; and then, with my hand idling in the shallows of his neck, he catalogues his every flaw: the dry skin that makes terrazzo of his back; the single mole between his shoulder blades, like an Eskimo marooned on an expanse of flaggy ice; his warped thumbnail; his knobbed wrists; the tiny white scar that hyphenates his nostrils. I finger the wound. My pinkie dips into his nose; he snorts. “How did it happen?” I ask. He twists my hair around his thumb. “My cousin.” “I didn’t know you had a cousin.” “Two. This was my cousin Robin. He held a razor against my nose and said he’d slit my nostrils so that I only had one. And when I shook my head no, the blade sliced me.” “God.” He exhales. “I know. If I’d only nodded okay, it would’ve been fine.” I smile. “How old were you?” “Oh, this was last Tuesday.

I’ve lived a good many years, and seen a good many things, and one thing I know to be true is that we are all scarred, all broken in our own way. Some of us may break more quietly than others, but break we all do, when this world dishes out its worst. It’s part of the journey we all came here to make, the stings and losses all part of our walk. But we can rise above those wounds if we choose. If we’re willing to let down our guard, to look beyond the flaws and the shortcomings, to what lies beneath.

And here is what you can say about a woman’s body when she has her clothes off: Absolutely Nothing. Listen homie, that thing that you secretly hate about my body? Don’t worry, I hate it, too. With every fiber in my weird, fibrous breasts. And I’m the one who has to deal with its daily mockery! Every mark, every scar, every scratch, every flaw: I’ve seen it, documented it, cried over it, and tried to hide it. Would it kill you to pretend it isn’t there? Or that—brace yourself—it might make me mysterious and sexy?

There are so many liquids and substances inside me, and I try to list them all as I lie here. There is earwax. The yellow pus that festers inside spots. Blood, mucus, urine, feces, chyme, bile, saliva, tears. I am a butcher’s shop window of organs, large and small, pink, gray, red. All of this jumbled inside bones, encased in skin, then covered with fine hair. The skin bag is flawed, speckled with moles, freckles, little broken veins. And scars, of course. I think of a pathologist examining this carcass, noting every detail, weighing each organ. Meat inspection. Fail.

You are beautiful because your eyes are different sizes and your lisp gets in between your tongue and teeth every time you try to say "something". You are beautiful because the scar under your chin looks like a spider and because you have a massive fear of heights. You are beautiful because there never has been, nor will there every be anyone else on this Earth like you. Because your flaws are like fingerprints and should be embraced just like the free will that resides inside. You are not beautiful because of the symmetry in the little squares on your telephone, you are beautiful because "you" are the only "you" this place will ever know.

When you lose someone you love, there is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It’s the scar you feel for, the flaw you can’t stop seeing. It’s the tender place that won’t bear weight. It’s a void. But the universe tends toward Ma’at, toward order, so even though there’s a rip, it gets camouflaged. The edges overlap, and after time, you might even forget that this is the spot where something went missing, the spot where—if you push—you’ll fall through. And then there’s a scent or a thought or a heartbeat and suddenly it’s clear as day: the light behind that ragged tear, so blinding that you cannot imagine how you ever mistakenly believed it had woven itself back together.

When you catch a glimpse of your reflection and all you can see are the very things you fear, do not be afraid, for light will meet you there. And even though every flaw has been illuminated here, there is no reason to fear, for there is beauty to be seen amidst the scars that have marked you. And whether they are easily seen or you are the only one who seems to notice they are there, you are free to cast away those anxious cares and fix your eyes on the wholeness light revealed. And it will not be easy, facing the mirror each morning, but perhaps you can be patient with yourself, remembering that seeing the wholeness of these scars is a part of getting to know who you are.

And then I saw it. My father's wood: thick by then with twenty years' growth, but still not fully mature. A half-grown wood of oak trees around that little clearing, which, with my new perspective, I could see made the shape of a heart. I stared down at the clearing. The heart was unmistakable; tapered at the base with the strawberry field in the centre; a stand of trees to form the cleft. How long had it taken my father, I thought, to plan the formation, to plant out the trees? How many calculations had he made to create this God's-eye view? I thought of the years I had been at school; the years I had felt his absence. I remembered the contempt I'd felt at his little hobby. And finally I understood what he'd tried to say to me on the night of my wedding. 'Love is the thing that only God sees.' I'd wondered at the time what he meant. My father seldom spoke of love; rarely showed affection. Perhaps that was Tante Anna's influence, or maybe the few words he'd had were all spent on Naomi. But here it was at last, I saw: the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, a silent testament to grief; a last, enduring promise. Love is the thing that only God sees. I supposeyou'dsay that's because he sees into our hearts. Well, if he ever looks in mine, he'll see no more than I've told you. Confession may be good for the soul. But love is even better. Love redeems us even when we think ourselves irredeemable. I never really loved my wife- not in the way that she deserved. My children and I were never close. Perhaps that was my fault, after all. But Mimi- yes, I loved Mimi. And I loved Rosette Rocher, who was so very like her. One day I hope Rosette will see the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, and know that love surrounds her, whether see can see it or not. And you, Reynaud. I hope one day you can feel what only God sees, but which grows from the hearts of people like us: the flawed; the scarred; the broken. I hope you find it one day, Reynaud. Till then, look after Rosette for me. Make sure she knows my story. Tell her to take care of my wood. And keep picking the strawberries.

And then I saw it. My father's wood: thick by then with twenty years' growth, but still not fully mature. A half-grown wood of oak trees around that little clearing, which, with my new perspective, I could see made the shape of a heart. I stared down at the clearing. The heart was unmistakable; tapered at the base with the strawberry field in the centre; a stand of trees to form the cleft. How long had it taken my father, I thought, to plan the formation, to plant out the trees? How many calculations had he made to create this God's-eye view? I thought of the years I had been at school; the years I had felt his absence. I remembered the contempt I'd felt at his little hobby. And finally I understood what he'd tried to say to me on the night of my wedding. 'Love is the thing that only God sees.' I'd wondered at the time what he meant. My father seldom spoke of love; rarely showed affection. Perhaps that was Tante Anna's influence, or maybe the few words he'd had were all spent on Naomi. But here it was at last, I saw: the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, a silent testament to grief; a last, enduring promise. Love is the thing that only God sees. I suppose you'd say that's because he sees into our hearts. Well, if he ever looks in mine, he'll see no more than I've told you. Confession may be good for the soul. But love is even better. Love redeems us even when we think ourselves irredeemable. I never really loved my wife- not in the way that she deserved. My children and I were never close. Perhaps that was my fault, after all. But Mimi- yes, I loved Mimi. And I loved Rosette Rocher, who was so very like her. One day I hope Rosette will see the heart-shaped meadow in the wood, and know that love surrounds her, whether see can see it or not. And you, Reynaud. I hope one day you can feel what only God sees, but which grows from the hearts of people like us: the flawed; the scarred; the broken. I hope you find it one day, Reynaud. Till then, look after Rosette for me. Make sure she knows my story. Tell her to take care of my wood. And keep picking the strawberries.

I lie for a living—that’s all fiction is, after all, when you drill down to the molten core of it: I, the writer, create in my mind a pair of characters, two people who did not heretofore exist, and I strive to make them seem real. I give them backstories. I give them foibles and flaws. Scars, peccadilloes, fetishes. Like you, like me. Then I come up with a way to force them into orbit around each other. This is the plot—the path of their orbits as they intersect, creating a necessary collision. The collision results in not destruction as in true astronomy, but creation. This collision is where the magic happens. It’s the real lie. It’s a lie that these people exist, that this story is real, or even possible. The happily ever after carries on after you’ve read those words: The End. You, the reader, come to me begging for that lie. You relish it. That lie provides you with comfort, with entertainment, with emotions your real life may lack. You know exactly what I’m doing, but like any accomplished magician, you don’t know how I do it.

You might consider a full shave," he suggested. "You certainly have the chin for it." Keir shook his head. "I must keep the beard." Looking sympathetic, the barber asked, "Pockmarks? Scars?" "No' exactly." Since the man seemed to explain an explanation, Keir continued uncomfortably, "It's... well... my friends and I, we're a rough lot, you ken. 'Tis our way to chaff and trade insults. Whenever I shave off the beard, they start mocking and jeering. Blowing kisses, calling me a fancy lad, and all that. They never tire of it. And the village lasses start flirting and mooning about my distillery, and interfering with work. 'Tis a vexation." The barber stared at him in bemusement. "So the flaw you're trying to hide is... you're too handsome?" A balding middle-aged man seated in the waiting area reacted with a derisive snort. "Balderdash," he exclaimed. "Enjoy it while you can, is my advice. A handsome shoe will someday be an ugly slipper." "What did he say, nephew?" asked the elderly man beside him, lifting a metal horn to his ear. The middle-aged man spoke into the horn. "Young fellow says he's too handsome." "Too handsome?" the old codger repeated, adjusting his spectacles and squinting at Keir. "Who does the cheeky bugger think he is, the Duke of Kingston?" Amused, the barber proceeded to explain the reference to Keir. "His Grace the Duke of Kingston is generally considered one of the finest-looking men who's ever lived." "I know-" Keir began. "He caused many a scandal in his day," the barber continued. "They still make jokes about it in Punch. Cartoons with fainting women, and so forth." "Handsome as Othello, they say," said a man who was sweeping up hair clippings. "Apollo," the barber corrected dryly. He used a dry brush to whisk away the hair from Keir's neck. "I suspect by now Kingston's probably lost most of those famed golden locks." Keir was tempted to contradict him, since he'd met the duke earlier that very day and seen for himself the man still had a full head of hair. However, he thought better of it and held his tongue.

I think about how long I’ve been ready to find the beauty in another human being, to caress the scars of someone as flawed as me and to feel that person reciprocate.

But someone very wise once told me that by opening our hearts, revealing our scars, we are made human and flawed and whole.

I want to tell you all of myself, show you the nicks and dents and scars of my life, and have you love me even though I be grievously flawed.

It is our flaws that make us beloved by heaven. It is our scars and handicaps and lack of symmetry that prove that we are-or once were-alive.

Beauty is not found in uniformity, nor value in conformity. It is in our colors and quirks and flaws and scars that true beauty and value unfold, because that is where our stories are told.

The perfect man is flawed, it may be scars, weight, looks, either way, when he looks at his woman, he can see past her imperfections and see her true beauty

Someone attacking you for being you doesn’t have to be the last word. There are lots of ways to flip the script; find a way to make that negativity work for you. What is the flaw or weakness in what someone’s doing to you? How do you exploit that to turn the argument around and come out better for it, if still bruised and scarred? You may not get that opportunity often, and sometimes the hurt is real and there’s nothing much in the moment you can do to make it better, because punching someone in the face or burying them under a pile of bricks is, generally speaking, frowned upon. But how it governs your day-to-day actions afterward is, to an extent, up to you, through how you choose to process that information. Will you let it break you down? Or will you never let the bastards grind ya down?

Everyone has their ugly side. We all have our hidden flaws, imperfections and scars. You’re just another one of us.

This woman knows me, my story, my beginning and my middle, my flaws, the history of my scars—my strengths and weaknesses. She sees so clearly past my armor and is the only one capable of going further, penetrating flesh and blood to get to the beating heart beneath. I gave that power to her, to hold it in her hand and do what she will with it. And even with it—knowing what she’s capable of doing to me—she continues to love, accepting the burden fully while remaining loyal and faithful.

I’m here, and I see her—every scar, every flaw, every broken, hollow piece. And I understand.

Have you ever heard of Wabi-sabi?" "Nope ," Angela admitted. Nicola sat up a little to better see Angela's face. "It's a Japanese point of view. The Sabi bit refers to something's beauty that comes from its imperfections, or damage it's suffered through its life." Nicola bent her head and gave the side of Angela's face a soft kiss, then pulled back up, enough for their eyes to meet. "Nothing is perfect if you look close enough, and nothing is forever. Despite what people think they want, we all in fact find things that appear perfect to be rather disturbing." She pointed to a chicken pox scar above her own right eye. "We seek out, and find comfort in wear and tear, flaws of any sort. Contrary to what our society believes, it's the imperfections which draw us to something and they can make us love it even more.

... we don’t love things because they’re perfect. We love them for what they are inside, what they represent, the time together, the shared memories represented by our battle scars and flaws.

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Tell me you want this, doll. You have a choice. I want to take you, own you, make you scream you’re mine. But if you say no, I’ll leave right now.” … “I want this. I want you. But…I’m ruined, Jag.” I swallowed down my pride and held out an arm, frantically blinking back tears. Jag’s eyes widened for a brief moment before my words sunk in. He skimmed a calloused finger down the sensitive skin of my inner arm, over the multiple track marks and puckered, fading scars. “They made you who you are, Miri. From your weakness, your addiction, you will prove that you can come out of it and rise up, becoming a better, strong version of yourself. You’re stunning. You’re perfect. We all have our flaws and imperfections.

Loïc, don’t ever be ashamed of your scars.” Tears fall down her cheeks. “Your scars are proof of the battles you’ve fought and survived. You could have checked out completely, but you didn’t. You fought to come back. You fought to live. You fought when your heart felt it had nothing to fight for. You are strong. You are brave. You are a warrior. And don’t you ever forget it.” My

Her mother sought to see the flaw in everyone, the blemishes, the scars. Mma sought perfection, she saw beauty in everyone. Her mother laughed at the girls who came to see her and Mma was filled with distress, a loathing for her mother who did not seem at all to notice, No. A mother who appeared to delight in her distress.A mother who lived by the rule that men were dispensable. Mma thought them indispensable and was not going to live as her mother lived. Her mother thought she was a fool. 'You fool-fool; men are not worth it.

When I put my stethoscope to a person’s chest what I’m listening for are signs of the heart’s flaws. In a normal adult heart, all you hear are the sounds of the heart valves snapping shut after the blood flows across them. The blood’s flow, as it moves across normal heart valves and around cardiac structures that are smooth and without abnormal perforations, is smooth and silent. It’s called laminar flow, the same quiet, unbroken stream you get if you turn on a faucet just a little. If the edge of a heart valve is rough with scar or calcium, the aperture is leaky or fused shut, or there is a hole in a septum of the heart, the blood will flow through with a whoosh. This is turbulent flow, and it’s also what happens across a water faucet that is clogged or opened wide. When doctors hear a murmur, they’re hearing turbulent flow across something abnormal in the heart. That

What my parents didn’t transform they sold “as is”: those two little words that carry so many scars, and heart. The phrase itself felt like me, like our life. It felt like enough.

I refuse to be that person, I refuse to regret my life or who I am. So I choose them every goddamn day that I wake up. Four flawed, scarred, powerful men. Even when it’s hard, even when the world is against us, I choose them every time, over and over, and they choose me. My heart is theirs, and theirs are mine. We aren’t perfect. We are criminals, gamblers, fighters, businesspeople and assassins. But these four criminals? They are my happiness. They are my life. They are my home, and wherever our path leads us now, we do it together.

You said we’re friends, and I want to be, I do, but we’re on unequal footing, and the difference between us is too large. I’m a fucking mess and you can see every single one of my flaws. You don’t want to be my friend. You just want to save me.

He could also take whatever you felt best about and sculpt it into a flaw with a handful of words. A terrible gift if ever there was one. Slaps wear off; bruises fade. But withheld love leaves a trench of invisible scars.

I forget things too. It makes me sad. Or it makes me the saddest. The sadness is not really about George W. or our American optimism; the sadness lives in the recognition that a life can not matter. Or, as there are billions of lives, my sadness is alive alongside the recognition that billions of lives never mattered. I write this without breaking my heart, without bursting into anything. Perhaps this is the real source of my sadness. Or, perhaps, Emily Dickinson, my love, hope was never a thing with feathers. I don't know, I just find when the news comes on I switch the channel. This new tendency might be indicative of a deepening personality flaw: IMH, The Inability to Maintain Hope, which translates into no innate trust in the supreme laws that govern us. Cornel West says this is what is wrong with black people today--too nihilistic. Too scarred by hope to hope, too experienced to experience, too close to dead is what I think.

I’ve lived a good many years, and seen a good many things, and one thing I know to be true is that we are all scarred, all broken in our own way. Some of us may break more quietly than others, but break we all do, when this world dishes out its worst. It’s part of the journey we all came here to make, the stings and losses all part of our walk. But we can rise above those wounds if we choose. If we’re willing to let down our guard, to look beyond the flaws and the shortcomings, to what lies beneath. It’s easier to be prickly than to be vulnerable, to distract with harsh words rather than show our bruises. But we must do the hard things. That is the work of healing. All this time, while you’ve been reading this, you’ve been thinking of Rhanna, of her flaws and her shortcomings. But I speak of you too, my Lizzy. You must let down your guard. The time will come when Rhanna will need you—and you will need her. You can’t imagine this now, I know, because of the gulf that’s always existed between you, but the day will come, perhaps sooner than you think, and when it does, you’ll finally understand—there is no quarrel sharp enough to sever the bonds of blood.

That night when you caught my reflection in the mirror,” I said. “When you said my name…the stone within me suffered a crack. And I don’t regret that it did, because I had forgotten how vital it is to be known for who you are, and not for who you pretend to be. I had forgotten how good it is to be seen, even with flaws and scars. I wanted you to see me. But I can’t risk it now. Not until the end comes. You are making it more difficult for me because I’ve grown fond of you, in the most impossible of ways.

An Eden’s Girl is every man’s deepest, darkest fantasy. She’s soft and beautiful and unique. She’s real, with real flaws, scars, and curves. An Eden’s Girl creates her own definition of beautiful. She’s not defined by her femininity, she defines it. Strong. Independent. Entertaining. Intelligent. Secretive.

The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he makes it feel as if my scars are an improvement rather than a flaw.

I like to imagine the war will end soon, and people who've lost their homes will return to Paris, to stroll through Greenspoon's. This one, they'll say, touching the black scar on the piano lid from where an uncle rested his cigarette that day, when he sat down to accompany the girls' singing. And this one, they'll say, knowing a china horse by the chip in its hoof. They'll know a silver teapot by a dent in its spout. A fur coat by a rip in its lining. A wristwatch by a scratch in its glass. A doll by its torn dress. They'll be newly grateful for all the old flaws, for the damage that left these precious things overlooked and unbought and distinctly their own.

She doesn’t need to hide. I’m here, and I see her—every scar, every flaw, every broken, hollow piece. And I understand.

Someone very wise once told me that by opening our hearts, revealing our scars, we are made human and flawed and whole.” He

Embrace the scars, the flaws, with grace, A masterpiece formed in life's embrace.

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I could have stared at him all night, my Jamie, my Whiskey. He was just so beautifully flawed, as if his scars and imperfections had been designed by the gods.

And in her she’s flawed, with scars and wounds from battles she fought with her heart. Looking for a love so strong and worthy of the blood that flows through her veins… Never shall she settle… never.

Avoid friends ,family and familiars who dwell on your flaws, Seek instead those who understand the strength required to declare your battle scars.

Personally, I don’t think there is a more vicious pack of carnivorous beasts on the planet than a group of junior-high students. There are many adults who still carry around the wounds and scars of their adolescence. Many young people during this transformational age are scared and uncertain about themselves and their place in the world. They feel vulnerable and don’t want to show their fears, so they look for weakness in others and lunge at any opportunity to exploit it. They feel that if they can expose a flaw or shortcoming in someone else, the pack, like a bunch of rabid sharks, will attack the wounded companion and leave them alone.

Emma gave him a soft look. “It’s not pity or distaste that worries you. You’re not afraid of rejection. You welcome it. But if you’re seen for everything you are—the strengths and the flaws, the beauty and the scars—you might have to believe you’re wanted. Loved. Really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly.” She pressed her forehead to his. “And completely.” Ash swallowed hard. She’d left him speechless. Entirely. “I know you’re afraid,” she whispered. “I know it because I’m scared, too. Terrified, really. Make love to me. Be brave with me.” She grasped his shirt in both hands and pulled. “With nothing between us.” “Emma, don’t.” “Why not?” He flailed for excuses. “It’s—It’s my favorite shirt.” “Then I’ll mend it later.