To be flawed is to be human.

We are all human. Simple. Flawed.
Cracks that glint in solitude, shine in isolation.
I am a small figure, covered in porcelain grey glaze,
Kiln cracked. Painted with millimeter perfect
Brushstrokes across my fractured surface.
Peach skin glowing in lamplight. Trousers, a shirt.
Eyes, eyebrows, hair; painted on with thin delicacy.
Not perfect. But acceptable.
Then the final layer of lipstick,
Applied with my porcelain hand.

We are all human. You. Me. Every child. Every adult.
The politicians with painted faces, smiling.
Teachers, mothers, doctors who always know best.
All cracked beneath the surface. Some barely. Some broken.
I paint on my smile, my self-assurance, my contentment.
In truth, one touch and I shatter. But I hide this
Beneath a smile. Beneath perfection.
I think you know this. I think you understand it.
Because I can see your cracks, as clearly as my own.
You are not alone in your sadness. I just learnt to smile.