My skin is impervious to the tears caused by silly words.

No such trivialities will stain or imbue.

I wear my proverbial cloak way too well.

For years, my hands partially obscured my view.

Too afraid to see my reflection,

Too afraid to see my such said imperfections.

Habitually, I focused on the intangibles

Insecurities, seeped into my pores.

Failures, imperfections, chastised my bones.

In my dreams, my makeshift fairy tales,

I was so much more; I was the quixotic figurine.

A figurine, that fulfilled what others wanted from me.

On a day, forever branded on the surface of my memory,

Like cheap, regrettable tattoos

I removed my hands and just looked.

What laid before me, was not misconstrued

But, the outer workings of something I loved.

A platonic, Romantic, obsessive, fuzzy, clichéd love.

My fears have been slain in my great Medieval epic.

The semi insecure innards are protected by a candy-coated shell.

The love for myself surpasses all.