Manicured Perfection leaks across her body,
sculpting virgin-white delicacies, intimacies,
and (yes, even) travesties in intricate patterns.

Like henna, almost, she thinks.

Tracing the patterned Perfection, she smiles,
and the corners of her lips tingle in a manner
akin to an "all-knowing" prowess.

If she tilts her head enough, her mouth
almost looks like a parenthesis.

Teeth breaking through, her broadened smile
cracks the symbol.

She wishes it looked like it was bolded, but
she admits that she's not grammatically

Washing away the whitewashed Perfection,
she recognizes the similarity (between
herself and Divinity), but admits herself
to be lackluster.

I wrote this while thinking of Hume's Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. A brilliant writer and philosopher, he was.