& I know who
you think I am.
You paste words upon
my body like hopeful
wishes;
Wondering if when
I sleep, they'll
seep beneath the
skin & become me.
& I hate to remove
your good intention
post-its with words
like 'beautiful' and
'kind' scrawled upon them
in your mishap letters.
But I know why
you hope for these little
messages of perfection-
I know.
You stare because
I'm broken & it shows.
& you hope these
magical words will act
as verbal band-aids;
covering and healing
my many
imperfections.
But I'm a big girl.
I don't need any of
your pretty little
cover-ups.
Only the blunt edge
of truth.
I won't mind if
your words cut too
deep, I'll heal.
Now, I ask, do you
need your weapon of
well-constructed sentences
to 'fix' me?
If so, I'd like to
remain broken,
sir.
I scoff and laugh
at the fact they
say it's all
in your mind.
But how can that
be when we base
our assumptions on
what we see?
They say looks don't
matter, so why do
you stare?
Are you checking to
see if your wishes have
worked?
Do you wonder how long
it'll take to show?
Because I wonder how
long it will take you
to realize: Sir, you
shouldn't have used
paste.