Monday, 27 June 2011

You're Perfect

Your friends encourage you
to bronze yourself like a statue,
the fakery on your hips
and your lips.

Your legs are now like
two curtain rails
drawing you wide:
you’re on show,
and can’t hide.

Your nakedness now
is a scar
to hide beneath
glossy veneer –
something unbidden, in bad taste,
like some angel bent double
in sneer.

And, all along, all wrong,
your friends have led you,
bled you
of your colour,
when, all the while, all you needed
was the loving ‘you’re perfect as you are’
of another.

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