Perfection or the Art of Constantly Getting in My Own Way

Perfection flits around in turtlenecks, dancing circles as she stares at me through sideways glances. She binds her breasts and wears shoes a size too small, doing everything she can to avoid double-digits. “Fuck being a perfect ten when it comes to your feet.”

Perfection’s voice box is a Yak Bak— lines playing over and over again— this is how to be a lady. This is how to make them love you. This is how to keep you safe. Do. Not. Rock. The. Boat.

Perfection wonders aloud if she is worthy. Spreading herself too thin with commitments that fail to titillate the soul. She toils in vain, desperately clawing and scratching in hopes of finding joy. Perfection cares about being appropriately packaged and palatable. Bite-sized pieces of bullshit so that people will like her. She is terrified of ecstasy, and losing control. She is white-knuckled death grip.

Perfection’s favorite word is “should”… or “whatever you think it should be”. She is shallow breath and tiptoe. She is Sunday roast at three. She is nothing is ever good enough. She is you are not enough. She is scarcity mindset of the soul. She is you will never be whole. She is nobody is going to give a shit.

Perfection is the bitch that I’m too polite to be.