Her (and other poems)

Don't

Perfect.

What a strange word.

To be perfect is to have no flaws,

But flaws differ by viewpoint,

So you may be perfect to one,

And horrid to another,

And therefore not perfect at all.

Yet despite its impossibility,

We all strive, certainly,

To be this "perfect" thing.

Perfect wife, perfect worker,

Perfect son or daughter,

All smiling in their illusion,

That they're the perfect one there.

I'm not a perfect anything,

And still you say different.

I gave you some of my darkest shards,

And still you called me perfect.

Still you said you loved me.

Don't,

Don't love me when I am made

Of these jumbled broken shards of glass,

Reflecting your smiles back at you,

While drawing blood when you get too close.

Don't love me,

Despite the fact that these shards are shining,

They will rip through your lungs

Should you get close enough to kiss them better,

And leave you torn up and bloody inside.

I'm not perfect,

Near opposite really,

Something dark covered with a pretty mask,

A poison touch that I'm afraid would last,

Please don't love me.

I don't want to fill you with my shattered glass.