I know that you struggle to see through the lenses of your own imperfections,
A ruffled collage of everything you are not,
For what grace does it bring a man to carry on his shoulders;
The badges of honour,
When he can sit them down beside him?
I see the easy fidget of your fingers,
When they touch something they love,
A simple caress, shock, stop and return,
Birthed out of perplexity.
But on those anxious days do great relief come,
With giant placards screaming that you are enough,
That you are a soul that need not strive for happiness,
And need not prove to be worthy of love.