They love you like a Monet  
blurred lilies at arm’s length,  
a myth of brushstrokes soft as breath.  
But step too close: the cracks erupt,  
ochre teeth, cobalt splits  
a masterpiece undone by its own grit.  

(We do this, don’t we?)  
Turn lovers into porcelain saints,  
then shatter them against the almost  
of what we think we deserve:  
Their hands too rough, their laughter  
a dissonant chord.  

But when we leave, we leave fingerprints- smears of our rust, flecks of dried blue clinging to their seams. We call it proof they were flawed, not us. Then we sprint toward new horizons, gauzed in gold, another frame to grip, another lie to hold.

But mirrors are merciless curators.  
Our own canvas? A silent riot—  
thick daubs of envy, streaks of not enough,  
the furious red of wants we sand to dust.  
We name it standards, call it taste,  
while our seams split like cheap glue,  
barely binding the mess we refuse to undo.  

The threshold’s a revolving door:  
admire the distant glow, despise the close-up smear.  

Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.  

Until one day you kneel,  
palms pressed to your private fractures,  
and finally see  
the same jagged light leaks  
through everyone.