I'm becoming a stereotype
for numerous things
a newborn sparrow with society-modified wings.

And I should probably cry
or get angry at this realisation
but I get the feeling it would be far too stereotypical a sensation.

So instead I'll just sit here like
a gaping wound, an empty box:
because the crux of this is that I am all that makes a paradox.

If I was a little louder
Would you hear me?
If I was a little nicer?
Would you love me?
If I was a little prettier?
Would you date me?
If I was a little uglier
Would you hate me?

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.