I learned somewhat late in life, perfection was an impossible standard to capture. To pull it off required misdirection, like casting a spell akin to rapture. And for a while I could be quite smitten mostly during those times I was manic. I’d find more than I could chew I’d bitten, while I was choking on it without panic. I learned that perfect can obscure the true, after I kept running into walls headlong. I was healed and chastened by then and knew if I saw only perfect, I’d be dead wrong. This revelation and relief I’m sharing; they came to me like some grace from above. Please know despite the scars you’re wearing, you’re always worthy of this scarred man's love.