Figures

Every time I turn The corner, No matter where I am, These figures stay behind me. Always whispering, Wondering why I am not A wax figurine Which someone put through a mould And telling me I am not good enough The way I am. And yet they wave Their arms and scream that They want me to be Who I am, be myself, That they don't want me To feel like I am Being squeezed into a little mould. I can't ignore them, Yet I can't believe them, With their shifting shapes And shifting sides. I try, they forget How to whisper, it seems. Screaming, yelling, shouting... Because I am not A perfect little angel. Because jagged edges And sunken cities Do not please the eyes Of perfect figures.