Although I gaze up at your face every night, I can’t see you,
except when the hundreds of millions
of gleaming stars that sleep next to you dim
and show me the imperfections on your skin
at last, but as much as you try, you cannot hide
or run from me with the midnight black mascara
or the silky black scarf that you show off at midnight
to the billions of eyes that watch you
or at least just mine, but you should have chosen
printed ink because mascara fades
or runs with stormy weather.
Move aside this facade and let
the world see your blemishes
beside the stars that you think outshine you
What do you think they have over you?
I think that your flaws are perfect.