the perfect poem

nothing is perfect, and if it is, it’s not.

so why did this begin anyway?

perfection trying to be created from imperfection.

a perfect ten, practice makes perfect, the word is too constant.

it moves into my brain and buries itself inside like a worm.

making my body feel wrong, my life feel wrong.

it sends my mind into a toxic hamster wheel and I can’t get out.

every time I think I have a handle on it, there it goes and knocks me down again.

perfection is blinding, suffocating, paralyzing.

why do we photoshop the back rolls away?

what good comes out of it?

perfection: “free of faults or defects”

that’s none of us.

from the moment we first breathe air through our lungs we are beautifully imperfect.

we blush and fart, snore with thunder and blow bubbles in our milk.

we have muffin tops and stretch marks. scars and bumps.

razor burn and skinned knees.

sweat stains and wine splotches on our t-shirts, a pimple ready to pop.

this is proof that we are living.

everywhere I look, I see perfection smeared onto anything it can grab.

perfect food commercials, where glue is used instead of milk.

plastic hamburger buns and a foamy liquid soap in beer.

airbrushed skin, freckles disappearing.

models always on the scale, measuring tape across their ribcage.

it’s sickening, poisonous.

we are individual and imperfect.

and that’s more than okay.

we aren’t robots or mannequins.

our words fumble and trip over each other.

because we don’t rehearse.

we live life organically.

fall down the stairs, tangles in our hair, spinach stuck between our teeth.

it’s impossible to be perfect, so why do we feel like it’s a requirement?

humanity makes mistakes and it always will.

we all have something in our teeth.

you can’t guarantee much, but imperfection is one of them.

perfection doesn’t belong here.