Tag Archives: perfection

War Paint

Sometimes, I want to paint my face pretty.

Dye my hair a different color – any other color, something not my own.

The mirror shines my face back at me and I notice everything that needs to be fixed. I notice the color of my skin, the scars, the lines and wrinkles, the bone structure, my nose. I think about what would make it better, prettier. I think about how I’m not better, prettier.

I daydream about makeup and pretty skin. I fantasize about being what I’m not.

I have to build myself up every time I don’t pick up the brush, or apply foundation. I have to forget my face every time I step outside.

Most of the time, I want to be pretty.


Perfect, Never Perfect

I am not perfect. Do not ever mistake me for the plastic, disgusting perfection you want to see me as. Call me lovely, wonderful, amazing –  if you want to get crazy – but do not ever mistake me, a piece of artwork that does not fit to everyone’s taste, for perfect.

These thoughts splitting me open and making me bang my head on the walls for a little bit out outer turmoil to shake things up are not perfect. My laugh, marred and changing and I swear it’s never quite the same, is not perfect. My kisses, my touch, my love is not fucking perfect and I will not take the misconception of that.


Bright light from the street outside cast shadows on the walls. In the light from the window, she tried not to seem on edge even to herself. Be perfect, she repeated – a mantra – over and over as if she only needed persuasion for it to actually happen.

Even in the strange comfort of her own room it was as though eyes were glued to her and she couldn’t rest for even a moment. She brushed her hair before bed, washed her face of any smudge that might mar her otherwise glowing complexion, and dressed in such a way that if she were to ever be photographed unknowingly she’d still be the picture of beauty.

Her light eyes peered out from behind the glass leading to the outside world and her breath caught in her throat. She physically softened her face when she faced the world and she kept her chin up. There was no falter in her confident demeanor.

Then her blinds slowly, gently closed. Her slow meander couldn’t have given her away, she practiced surely well enough. Her lithe hands would open and close the bathroom door the same way each time, and her face held nothing but serenity until the door was locked. Back to the door, she’d slide down and her heart would race and, oh, where now was her façade? Where was the confidence, bordering on arrogance, then?

Those beautiful, slender fingers would wring the thin fabric of her clothing. Any thoughts of make up or appearances would be gone in the safety of the closed off room, with no windows to bear witness to the shameless unravelling of everything she had ever stored up.

In her world of unforgiving, tenacious judgment, this was her only respite. This was her only soft comfort away from what she would ultimately bring on herself. Her lips were sealed otherwise, because in a world so quick to judge, she’d be safe from it so long as she was perfect. So terrified of the ugly bitterness of the world, she couldn’t allow herself even one moment of imperfection, her fear of it too consuming.

The impossible tasks of perfection will only heavy the burden on her shoulders. It would only weigh down until the structure holding it would crack and – finally – break.

A Little Off


I don’t like picking the first card from the deck, but I do because that’s what’s expected. Always meshing and staying in between the lines when all I want to be is a scribble that makes the perfectionist cringe.

Just a little off, a picture that’s never quite straight. A zigzag line with one curve. A crooked smile and that perpetual tilt of the head.

It feels too stiff when the curtains are perfectly symmetrical. When everything seems to have a place and that’s exactly where it is. So my heart likes to beat out of rhythm. My lungs like to hold its air when I’m not paying attention.

And though I can’t help but strive for perfection, I hate it.