The letter I is perfect.
Better by far
than its user with
all their defects.

Vital as the speaker’s need to breathe,
is the letter’s need for the listener’s deceit.
Unintentional or willing,
Describing I will always be misleading.
Its danger is its deception,
while its truth has no teeth.

It is the wave’s sound receding
Down the plane of the beach,
back into the sea.
Audaciously it climbed the sand,
And now rattles the stones it can’t keep.

So, you see,
the letter I is perfect.

Though I is only I in a vacuum.
It can only know itself.
Bring it company,
And it’s you.

You are not perfect.
You are a liar. Did you love her?
You are a cheater, you hurt me.
Did you ever care?

Well, yes and no, you see.
Maybe I am not perfect, after all.
I was scared. I didn’t love her.
I just didn’t know until now.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.

But those are the things you say
When you’re you,
and not I.

I know that I’m a liar.
I stopped being a liar,
the day that you read this.

And now two of us know
what I really look like.