Do not tell me you love me,

                I cannot bear to hear it

It is a lie; a malicious lie,

                For it is not honest and is stagnant as murky water

Do not call me perfect,

                Ah, perfection,

What a cruel, cliche!

                                To be perfect – is not achievable

All clay is soft and malleable

                With great promise

And all porcelain is at some point finished

                But it is not perfect,

                                It breaks,

                                                It shatters.

I am no porcelain doll

                Nor was I made to sit pretty in a cabinet collecting dust

I was born with great promise,

                But never perfect

Perfect is a sunny day with cool breezes

                With joyful company and happy memory

                                It is a kite in blue skies sailing on the fresh wind

Rather,

                Tell me your fears

                                Tell me you know my flaws

                                                Do not attempt to pick up shattered porcelain with the intent to fix

                                                                But rather: –

Accept.

                And I will recover.