Perfectly Imperfect

I’ll write a story,
Silver sharp knife in hand
beige, soft skin on the table
the scribbling begins
first just lightly scraping the surface
of the life underneath the façade,
then deep gashes in the pride
revealing the hideous truth
You don’t like it
so you take it and fold it into wings
perfectly imperfect
they crash into the walls of your mind
which you can’t seem to escape ….