The Darkest Corners of Me

I care naught for trivial things, 

like sunlight edges and glowing seams.

I care little for black and white,

or added color to lips and cheeks.

I despise the incandescence 

of hues and saturation

or the moving ticks of contrast and warmth.

And all the names they think of,

those that want fakeness to rule,

names for the boxes that will create a new you,

they sound strange and odd, and almost unreal,

and all they do is change your identity.

I care only for regular light shades,

and the norms of the blemished in my face,

and for fly away hairs and mussed clothes,

and unmatching tones and 'too bright' 

'too dark'. And turning the angles until they spin round and round,

to find the perfectness in the imperfections,

that make me who I am.