Travesty of Tragedy

nobody believes we’re imperfect

because if you pull up my sleeves, i have no scars to show

every actuality is detailed in invisible ink

in a diary i’ve locked behind my rib-cage door

i can feel it’s sharp edges, like a samurai blade

piercing fiercely when i forget to sit straight

poised with flowered China

like Jester, i can play the Queen’s fool

like Shakespearean Juliet, i can romanticize fibs

like Magic Mirror, i can reflect what is wanted to be seen

-- a travesty of tragedy

take the dermatome and bleed me bare

but it's far prettier to know what wasn’t there