Loved ones tell stories about me to me
but I already know what it's like to die,
and to pluck at my ghost's sad eternal.
I wrote an apology on the mirror,
and one forget-me-not to yours truly.
Another ideal sculpted frame
to love, to want, to fear, to blame.
We all hate to look, we all love to picture.
Alone we seek shadows to hide in, as statues mark these days.
I know nothing of delicacy blossoming beneath the flesh.
Tickle my fancy with visions of "Perfection,"
On infinite wings I fly from affection.
Syllabes, images, deny self-worth; the pain of convention.
There's a desire to validate this body.
There's a need to eradicate this paradigm.