What Mirrors Might Reflect

No amount of love will free me from my flaws. Perfection fits it's noose around my neck. Shed the failing shell as I await my end, pursuing decaying foundation. Longing to withdraw inherited excess, to recreate the form from which I came. No amount of love will free me from my flaws or shield me from what mirrors might reflect. Dissection of self: I ache to be anyone else. A veil of confidence torn and transparent, revealing the bitter taste of truth. Carried in the wind, harvested organs will revise a mold that went unmatched. Dragging my face through broken glass, I see no god in me.