Virtue itself ‘scapes not calumnious strokes.

Perfection ain’t sexy.
A spotless surface seem unreal, untouchable, distant.
It’s the dabs of mess
That really highlight our humanity.
Virtue without calumnious strokes
Is not virtue at all
But a fantasy
An ideal, chiseled into rock and polished out of form.
I fall harder in love with imperfection every day.

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