I bandage my flaws but they never heal. Covered, still there. I paint the bandages pink, only temporary. I want to retreat into a shell where I can be safe and unseen. Vanity is a burden. It is a disease, an addiction and it is a distraction. Why must I be this way? Why do I care so much? Is it that I crave acceptance? I want to be loved, to be in love, can that happen for me? I await a dove to land on an alligator’s nose, thinking it’s a mossy log floating in the water, just as the alligator dies from heart failure. I await perfection. The odds, though, weigh completely out of my favor. I feel like perfection is just coincidences lined up just right until they are right where they should be. I’m not important enough for that. My goal here is to stop giving a ****. Help?
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