Perfectly Imperfect

by: Stacy

You look like a calendar
with all your lines and perfect font.
Separating life into neatly packaged
squares and days.

And you drag pens
across your days,
murdering them one by one,
so easy to divide past and present.

Chaos scares you.
But write me in,
in permanent marker,
and don't cross the T in my name.

Let me be your windstorm.
Let me be your disaster.
Let me rain until your lines melt down the page,
and your papers disintegrate.

And you're left with nothing
but you. No more black and white.
So bare. So natural.
So perfectly imperfect.