Smoothed edges

 

You can iron out the wrinkles,

watching as steam smooths the creases,

flattening crinkles that don't fit

your perceived image of me.

But what is left? Evaporated days,

erased in a cloud of vapour,

memories thin as paper, wiped clean away.

Singed edges on a torn picture of me.

A shirt on a hanger, with nowhere to go.

I'd rather be a crumpled-up

reminder of living full flow.

 

You can smooth the ridges,

trim descriptive edges, rip out

the artistry, leaving only

empty sentiment, like sediment

dirtying a paint pot.

You can erase the pencil sketches,

leaving only clean, precise ink.

But whose image sits on the page?

I'd rather be a rough draft,

scribbled with passion,

than a picture of perfection,

painted without loving attention.

 

You can stretch me taut

to fit the mould you brought,

warping skin into place,

pulled tight until it's ready to split,

a plastic bag, its contents straining.

But what is left? A mask or a face?

Will it just dissolve in the rain?

Me, or a person you plucked

from some mental imagery,

to create mimicry of the world

you perceive to be in symmetry.

 

You can sand away discrepancy,

chisel until it's a carbon copy

of someone else entirely.

But what would be left of me?

Just an afterthought

caught on the breeze,

a prayer brought to my knees,

a softly spoken word or a shout.

The whisper in the trees.

 

Or you can soak me in desire,

drench me in passion.

Set alight the touchpaper.

We can burn brighter

if you accept me for all my flaws.

Take my hand and I'll hold yours,

and show you a life

beyond the same tired doors.