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
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.