Look child, real close now,

do those cracks reach your

unopened eyes?

You really can’t see, can you?

Her skin is not alabaster smooth,

her eyes not of one color

(In fact, there’s not one

that doesn’t reflect in

her view).

Ink stains her hands from

words, too afraid of capture

to escape the confines of her lips.

Scars riddle her form,

memories of childhood accidents or

unfortunate events.

A bruise on her knee from

a clumsy banging of her

living room coffee table this morning

(Meanwhile, your head was filled

with thoughts of her graceful stride).

You see a radiant smile

but ignore the lipstick on her teeth,

a result of not letting the world

see her without her mask,

but being too rushed to perfect it.

Noticed is the laughter

bubbling up from her throat, and

ignored is her silence

when her mind is running circles

(They say silence speaks

louder than words, but that

doesn’t matter if you’re deaf).

You long for the feel of soft hands

but don’t notice the chewed nails,

late nights of stressing having

unevenly worn them down.

Sure, her voice is beautiful

while singing the lyrics

of her favorite song, but

after hours of crying, not

a single word is in tune.

She’s not the painting

hanging on plain white walls,

the work of one artist

to be finished and forgotten

(You admire the beauty of a piece,

but there is plenty of art

to distract you in a museum).

You see her as a precisely

straight line, but if you look

you can see the knots

and frayed ends.

She’s a full collection,

both the positives and negatives

needed to develop her picture,

the puzzle you can stare at

for hours, and never

quite figure out.

She’s the mosaic built from

bits and fragmented pieces,

a collective project of

everyone that walks into her world

(Foolish, foolish you are

to accept boring perfection

instead of lovely complexity).