Beautiful Poem by courtney metcalf

For he calls me beautiful, even when I look gross...which I will never understand. And he see's what I am not: Perfect. How does he do this? That, I do not know. But beautiful... What are the qualifications? And then it hits me and I am no longer feeling so special.
For anything can contain beauty.
From the blood on a killer's hands, his eyes gleaming with pride.
To the dirt we walk upon, in which we end up buried in.
All this leading back down to the simplicity of a flower in bloom.
All this leading up to this word:
Beautiful
Wherein I have been titled the same.