they’ve put me on a pedestal,

foundation so tall that I can barely reach

what they’ve idolized of me.

imperfections – they’ve written over them

with glossy ink, scrawling

singing praises in glittery pink.

fears – they’ve glued the cracks together,

so they may sell a put-together product

worthy of an entrepreneur.

and the worst of all –

they’ve misunderstood my artistry

and painted what was left of me

with faux smiles hidden in mockery.

and then they ask me what they’ve missed

in their search of architectural perfection –

they’ve missed my basic sin

(what they’d rather ignore and ruin)

I’m not a god. Only human.

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