Galatea

You describe me as alabaster and marble skinned, crafted, perfect, but you don’t seem to understand that I am not crafted any more then a handful of dirt is.  Yes, forces have acted on me and sometimes they have polished me, but more often they dent and bruise.  These marks aren’t the grain of rock, but what it looks like to lead a hard life.

You’re not listening to me.

You never listen.

Stop putting me on a pedestal.

What do you see when you look at me like that?  Do you see these imperfections?  Does your eyes drift over them and smooth them out?  Or are they part of your art?  What makes me feel so real?  

I can’t tell what you are looking at, but I don’t think it’s me and I can’t do this anymore.  

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Well, it may be subjective, but it shouldn’t be projected.

Do you understand what I am trying to say?

I can’t live up to what you have imagined me to be.  I’m not some fantasy.  I’m real.  All these lines, all these grooves.  They aren’t crafted.  They aren’t perfect.

Perfect’s too much to ask.