The blemish that haunts
In your reflection.
You look harder, wondering why
Its there, hoping its your imagination.
But no. The spot is there.
You turn away and hope that
Out of sight, out of mind,
But it already burnt its
Existence into the fabric of
Consciousness, and it
Haunts.
It gently brushes against your
Consciousness, unnerving
And it just won't go away,
That spot of imperfection.
Perhaps perfection is over-hyped.
Even if I choose to look past the
Smudge, the glaring judgement of
Others persecutes like an itch
I cannot reach, one that may slowly
Turn into pain.
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