A Flawed Poem On Flawlessness

Flawless? Please bitch what the hell is that?

Pray tell, lovely, what it means to be flawless.

Even Christ’s apostles were not flawless.

We are all flawed, my love, the questions is how?

Is it the old scars on my body,

The scares on my heart,

On my mind,

Is that what makes me flawed?

Or rather is it my manner,

My swearing,

Bitching,

Which makes me flawed?

What is it that makes me flawed?

Is it my imperfect waistline,

My fat ass,

Face?

It must be my mind, my over thinking

Over scrutinizing

Pained mind

That must be my flaw.

I might find in me some things that are pure,

But I am not flawless.

Or am I? Are my flaws, in their totality,

In their brutality

In their subversive manner,

Is that what makes me flawless?