(Poem) Perfect.

I can never be
Perfect.

Like the one in my dreams, the one
who I yearn to be, I can never be
Perfect.

My nose is crooked, my arms—
uneven. I can’t see
the point in having these buck teeth. I hate
how wrong I seem to be, how
much I overthink, how much
I struggle to be thoughtlessly free. I hate
me.

And I try to be
Perfect.

This impossibility—I can never rid myself
of this personal, self-imposed standard, this
statue carved in stone. I can never reach
the one set on this pedestal. It always
falls short,
so how can I ever reach the one I call
me?

Like the one in my dreams, the one
who I yearn to be, I can never be
Perfect.

I can never be
Perfect