imperfect to the touch
unbalanced to the eye
I have to fearful symmetry
just a clumsy butterfly
impractical; untrained
harangued

gaily colored wings
shredded
float like so many flower petals
from their fingertips

shards of glass
tumbling down my cheeks
lie flat where tears ought to streak
I do not cry under their scrutiny
let them look at me

cold mannequins
painted, just so
to let any onlookers know
perfection rots within
sugar and spice
disguising flower shaped tripe

in my hands I hold no knife
I only flit from tree to tree
reeking of simplicity
all I hide is a haunted, complicated mind

strip away my abnormality
ladies and gentlemen you'll be pleased to see
that my quirks really are a part of me
I don't masquerade
costumes are fun
but I cannot always be on parade

I do not care what you think you see
I know what I want to be:
imperfect to the touch
unbalanced to the eye
an abstract, fearful symmetry
impractical; untrained
set free.