I was supposed to be your herione
made of paper mache words
stuck to me, in the form of a girl.
I was supposed to be your idyllic perfection,
a sculpture formed of your gazes
cutting me like lasers to diamonds.
I was supposed to be your ideal
shaped within your mind,
sharp and fragile like crystal.
Yet, I turned out to be
a little bit broken by the time
you actually got around to me.
I turned out to be not quite as poetic
as you had imagined
when you dreamt me up in sleeplessness.
I was never the full beauty,
never the complete magnificence,
never exactly everything you had hoped.
I was supposed to be something
perfect and unassuming
but I turned out to be everything
disfigured and poignant.

01/04/2002

Posted on 01/04/2002
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