i am the imperfection
in your work of art
which you erase until
i cease
to exist
and so does the idea
that i could ever be a part
of something so beautiful.

i am the blood on
the mattress and
the mud stain in the carpet.
i am the roach
skittering
into the dark
to hide
where it is more comfortable.
to where
i belong.

i am the dirt below the casket.
i do not see the light of day
anymore.