Margins of Perfection

Scathing, like bullet marks; evidence of a lack of self-control. Not all my fault I cry, edging into the shadows. This fault, these imperfections, make me wish the world was blind, Or at least limited to silhouettes, for in the black no one would see The monstrosity in the reflection. I do not want to wear a mask, to be the coward that hides from what they have become, Yet watch the sapling sway under the breeze selling a dash of ordinary at discount price. If only we could see in 10-10. If only we could see deeds and not the doer; hear words beyond the speaker. If only the margins of perfection extended beyond the masquerade.