Not even procuring
the slightest sympathies
despite being obvious,
subliminal and all.

Modesty begets
the chilly glances
of peanut gallery catapults
ready for assault.

Defend the walls or
all that’s left of ruined graves
and barricades.
Shrapnel in needle precision,

In surgical garbs,
does quite the lobotomy.
Words are like gauze
no matter who wraps the wound.

Come hither now,
with B-Movie pitchforks,
with Styrofoam torches,
and acting that rivals gravity.

For I am your monster,
your mismatch amalgam,
and also, your salvation!
Sorry, I jest.

Take heed, however,
the perfection you seek
is just as misshapen as I…