Imperfect and Flawed

The summer heat blew into my face, as the variegated flowerbed called my

name. It whispers with the gentle bumble of bees, and the kiss of pollen in my eyes.

The wind holds my hands, and guides me far away from demons who lurk amongst

men.

Because they point and laugh, unlike the trees who rustle and please. Because

I’m more than black or white, unlike the butterflies who feel indifferent to my palette.

I never loved it – never loved “me.” My blocky frame and skinny limbs. My boney

hands, and skin cracking like stone. My face – as asymmetrical as can be, one side

touched by the hands of imperfection.

As if God had drawn me blindfolded, left me with a body of horrors. I’ve been

discarded into a pool of unfinished paintings, a page with my face cross-hatched on

the right side.

But I’ve seen the world outside the bin – it’s full of color and life. Paintings walk

amongst men, with faces bright and complete. Their voices were like angels, and

overflowed with talent from beyond the stars.

Oh, to be loved. To be held within the palms of God himself, handpicked from the

rest. But here I am, laying in a bin of the discarded. My talents are unparalleled,

unhelped by a grueling image within my equation.

I’ve always wondered when my happily ever after would come, just like the

fairytales I’ve read as a little girl. Where a prince would love me, and the world falls in

love with the patches of scarlet on my cheek. Where I’d fall in love with myself and the

scales on my body.

Lo and behold, a light creeks from the top of the bin. I’ve been saved! Will this be

it? The warmth of human emotion washes over me, as I ventured the world for the very

first time.

A world full of life and light – wonder and grace. Oh, to feel alive and loved.

Never in my years could I imagine walking amongst the complete and painted.

Some looked at my sketched face with grace, while others with disgust. Perhaps

the wind lied, along with the bees and flowers. Perhaps there were less demons lurking

amongst men.

Because they held me close, told me my hands were warm. Because they looked

at me, not to laugh, but to tell me our differences make us unique from one another.

Perhaps I’ll love my flaws. My stone and scales, to my right side that lies hidden

beneath a broken mask. My ridden nails, and my square frame – I’d love it all.

If God were blind instead of blindfolded, I’d be happier than I was before.

Because I was loved and never disregarded by his hands; he gave his all. Because not

every painting is finished, but because they are perfect just as they’re sketched.

As I walked down the wedding aisle, church bells rang as people cheered from

my sides. The groom stood patiently, shedding tears of joy. I’ve found the happiness

I’ve longed for, and finally found my happily ever after.

But there was a pain in my chest, as deep crimson seeped from my abdomen. I

fell hard to the ground. The wedding venue had been empty, and there wasn't a groom

in sight. Because I had played make-believe for far too long, consumed by the fables

and lies whispered by paintings who lurk amongst men.

Oh, to be loved.