Her Definition of Perfection

HER DEFINITION OF PERFECTION
The anarchy she inherited through tragedy
wants her to not care what other people think of her. 
Fuck other people’s minds.  Fuck their judgments. 
Fuck their definition of right. Fuck their opinions.
And so she screams and she screams at herself
to stop conforming to societal norms.  But the ropes around
her wrists have left designs of plum and scarlet.
She screams louder.
She begs for freedom.  The freedom to be messy. 
But she’s scared.  And the fear has implanted metallic spikes
Around her heart.  And so her screams leave her mind
and pass through her lips, but miss her heart and fall
into the oblivion.  And the cigarette between her lips
tastes like candy.  So she smokes some more chemicals
and drinks some more nothingness until
she is intoxicated with empty thoughts. 
She wants to be happy, but the need to be perfect
entwines itself around each smile and pulls every bit
into the blackness.  Deeper and deeper they fall into the basement
of her soul, until the feeling is lost beyond recognition.


​October 3, 2012


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THE STORY BEHIND THE POEM

I've always felt this need to be perfect.  Or at least, whatever my version of perfection is.  And I felt stifled by it.  I was afraid to be big and bold and unique in case you didn't like me.  I needed you to like me.  Your opinion of me became more important to me then my opinion of myself.  And so I hid myself from the world, it was safer there.  In my small sheltered world I couldn't be rejected.  I couldn't be judged.  But I also couldn't be me.  I wish I didn't care so much about what other people think of me, but I did, I do.  I put all my energy into hiding myself that I forgot that life is about discovering who I am and building the best most beautiful life for myself.