The Master of My Morgue

Collide with me;
with our scars,
With everything,
All my ugliness.
Accept what
I cannot?
Because perfection
Isn't real and
I choose to tell
Myself this
Because I am not
A social perfection
of blonde and blue,
Of golden skin and
Legs for miles.
But I'll still hope,
With a heart that's
Somehow far too
Compassionate,
Yet cold and scarce,
That you'll see beyond
My personal misunderstood
Of dark hair
Dark eyes
And skin that's
Milky white and
Littered in thick scars,
Reminders of bruisish
Violet and scarlet-
I'll still hope for
The beautiful stranger
Whose mind screams
As well as his poetry.
Because you're
Exquisite.
Because I  
Want to heal your
Wounds and save
Just one soul from
Such self-destruction.
Collide with me;
With your ugly,
Your beautiful,
Everything.