Symmetry is beautiful,
symmetry is ideal,
symmetry makes two halves join into a whole;
symmetry is perfection
and you are grotesquely hideous,
your two halves do not make a whole
you don’t seamlessly join
where your body meets your soul
and you will never be
the perfect mathematical formula
that constitutes true beauty.
But, my love,
I do not know symmetry.
I would not know it
if it were to scream into my face
and shake me with a fervour
because i cannot see correctly,
my eyes deceive me
and it is not your fault,
it is my own.
Perhaps, if you were anything less
I would think more of you
but I am an amateur
and i cannot appreciate truth
so you must lie to me.
I find truth better in deception;
I am, after all, accustomed
to seeing through morphed lenses
so squander yourself
and shatter every perfect curve
that exists on your surface
because until you do so
i will never see symmetry;
so, you must break,
twist, turn
and deform yourself,
then allow me to look at you
and be enchanted,
by your perfect symmetry;
when you have me tight in your grasp
I want you to laugh at me,
and do not stop
when I ask you the cause of your mirth,
laugh until I join you
with my own confused laughs;
and then shatter me,
clench your fists around my throat
and look into my eyes
as my despicable ideals slip away,
taking with them my life,
but do not worry.
It was worth nothing,
I was worth nothing.
You see,
I was not symmetrical.


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