They say imperfections make you beautiful,
and I had just started to believe that.
I bared the gaps I felt inside me,
the seeping cracks, voids that at times engulfed me.
I saw the gleam in your eyes
and it was from the beauty that surrounded me.
But all you saw was a girl empty inside,
malleable, broken to your eyes,
which you could mold to your desires.
I retreated my words for a while,
imperfections made me weak,
a sight to pity at.
Until I realized,
imperfections made me who I am,
as long as I did not bare them to,
a man with a motive in mind.