Perfection, Vanity’s Way Of Saying “I Hate You”

I won’t be sorry for not being perfect
I’m as good as I’ll ever be
I won’t change
Just for you to brand me your daughter
Or have me blend in with the crowd
I’ve become the crimson in these charred streets;
The only fire left burning in your eyes.
I hear the disappointment
Growing wearily through your words,
And I can’t deny the fact that, I’m afraid.
But still, I refuse
To become apart of your masquerade fantasies;
The fake smiles plastered on their faces.
And the fear they cover so well.
Your hands, now brittle from trying so hard
To mould me into your wanted shape,
Has now collapsed at your sides
From the site of my true certainties.
It is what you would call repulsive
And what I’d call beautiful.
So let pride consume you,
But only for who I am
And for who I’ll always be
Myself.