Imperfect

They act as if I were conceived

of the heavens

and not a woman

and a man

on this earth.

As if,

like some celestial being,

I could rise on wings

into the clouds

and stand before God

without shame.

As if I had never

never

never

faltered

or fallen

before now.

As if

my mistake

would

unravel

(heaven forbid)

the consistency of

their inconsistent existence.

This pedestal is too high,

and I am afraid

to turn about

and face the sun--

afraid that I might fall.

Why do they suppose me

to be flawless?

And why are they so

disparagingly

in awe of me?

Why do they marvel

that my lips are unstained

with the profane

and mundane

and uneducated language

that mars the beauty of words?

And why

do they gain such morbid delight

when I fumble

and falter

and totter a little closer

on the edge?

The pedestal is too high

and higher it grows.

I am afraid.

I am no angel,

I am not God.

I did not ask to be put here!

Once again

I breathe deep

and strain a bit more

to hold myself here.

Balanced in

this

precarious position

in the window

of my own, personalized,

impersonal

Tower of London.

Imprisoned

by expectations too great.

The pedestal is too high,

and the wind blows cold,

and I have long ago left

the shelter of obscurity.

I wait now for my escape to arrive

on soiled

blackened

raven's wings.

But for now I cannot leave.

So I stand atop this ever-growing precipice

And hope for a flaw to pass my way

that I might latch on

and be lifted from this captivity,

freed from this restraining image of perfection,

no longer to be the fallen angel.