Her name was Mary Sue, and she was perfect.
A face like wonder
that bathed in beauty and
half dressed seduction
soaked in crystalline
bath bombs
scenting her skin
Perfect.
A voice like innocence
that cried for lust
begged endlessly for kisses
wrapped in glaciers
devoured
from the inside out
More perfect than me.
A heart like liquid gold
that melted men
and ate them whole
sent them platinum pressed
flowers
and called it love
More perfect than I'll ever be.
A tongue like flame
that licked and loosened
the severity of my heart
until it crumbled like
sawdust
between her fingers
I wanted her to - she was perfect.
A laugh like foreign goods
unworldly and unwieldy
a stab in the back from
a voice that chimed like
bells
or blades, I couldn't tell.
So perfect.
Too perfect.
Hopelessly, unbelievably perfect.
It's hard to believe she was even real.
An ode to the numerous Mary Sues I'm seeing in fiction.