I used to get afraid when people would say it
“you're so perfect”
It would send me into a frenzy
It will knock me off course
I knew deep down,
I am not perfect.
I have flaws
I have mental health struggles
My dishes are undone
and last nights clothes are still on the floor.
“You’re so perfect”
Those words were the triggers of panic
the air in the room will vanish
If they knew,
If they only knew
they will all hate me.
Being called perfect felt like a death sentence
I have eaten nothing but noodles
for the better part of two weeks
and have not yet washed my hair
If they knew,
if they only knew
they will all hate me.
A void lay between who I presented as,
and who I was.
I mastered being pretty
I knew how to walk
when to talk
I could put a shield over my eyes.
Over and over again,
In the mirror, I learned to fake a smile that reached my eyes
my eyes
my eyes were shallow,
they held no depth
only the story of a girl who grew up wanting to be a barbie
a girl who became a barbie.
A doll trapped in her box.
“you’re so perfect”
Those words were venom spat at me through smiling teeth.
Now, I hate being called perfect
not because I am afraid of you seeing my darkness
but because to be called perfect is to deny it exists.
Perfection is subjective,
it is defined by those who portrayed that image before.
So, to call me perfect
is to call me a photocopy,
a replica of who you think I should be.
A never-changing image on the wall.
No, no. I am not perfect.
I am an evolving being
an imperfect beauty
a precious but haunted soul.
It is my imperfection that makes me whole.
my flaws give me a reason to dance,
my struggles give me a reason to love.
To call me perfect is to assume I walk through this life
on a cloud of candy
a person who exists only how I should.
But no,
I am an individual to behold.
One whose rage is a firey tornado
fueled by love and passion.
One who exudes the erotic,
and denies the pornographic.
A mind that builds from the ground up,
taking all with me.
The understanding of the absurdity of existence
separates me from the unidentified
misogyny, racism and false idea of self
that I was led to believe was the norm.
This feels like freedom,
the severance from perfection.
The dissection of unquestioned ideologies.
The liberation of self.
To move with and not against the rhythm of time
to soften my gaze
let my pain be known.
to utter only words of life
to stand in what I believe to be true.
unfazed, undaunted by the waves that try to engulf me.
Didn't you know?
I can split the sea.
