If I looked like you,
I’d stand in front of the mirror, too,
Staring at myself for hours on end,
Absorbing my own vanity.
You aspire toward perfection,
Blotting out flaws—
So many imaginary—
Concealing them with devices artificial.
I can’t help but wonder why.

What warped perception of humanity
Would make you desire the status of a god?
Man wasn’t made perfect,
And it is in our missteps and failures
That we become beautiful.
Nothing you veil your mortality with
Will ever do justice to what’s underneath,
And through just fabrication
You become mundane—something less than human.

Is it worth what you are afforded
To be regarded as less than what you are?
Can you walk to your death fulfilled
Knowing you’re deemed hollow by wandering eyes?
Do you think your flaws will not follow you to your grave
Or that immaculacy will define your existence?

Do not repudiate the fact that you cry, too,
And the tears slide down your cheek, eroding the mask you wear,
Revealing the truth beneath.
Yet you would have yourself manufactured,
Dispensing plastic tears that do not break or splash,
Proffering sacrifice to Mother Earth for another night of solace.
You crave the hollow, yearn for fallacious perfection,
And accept sordid imbursement.
I can’t help but wonder why.




You’re not worth my time,
With your insecurities, profligacy, and secrecy;
Not worth the hours I could waste
Conjuring all possibilities in which I could make you smile.

You’re not worth the breaths I could take,
Striving to subsist just to keep you happy—
The doses of oxygen you would never cherish,
The dedication you would never fathom.

You’re not worth these words I write you
Or the obsession I will pore over this piece
To ensure its immaculacy—
A measure you can never parallel.

You’re not worth anything, for you see in me my flaws,
My impotence, my impuissance, my failures, my deprivations;
Measured against your muse, I’m a portrait of imperfection.
But a secret I will impart to you, my dear:
No one in this world is perfect,
And that includes you.