Poems

Maybe

Everyone has imperfections. Him, her, them. Eveyone. Including me. Yet I can't seem to accept that. I can't seem to accept that I don't always have to have 100%, that I don't always have to look picture perfect, that I can have imperfections and it won't kill me. I wish I could accept this knowledge yet I can't. And maybe my family has something to do with that. Maybe my mother yelling at me for crying has something to do with that. Maybe my dad's "you only got 91?" Joke that he made to my sister when she was in 8th grade has something to do with that. Maybe my sister's "I'm better then you" jokes has something to do with it. Or maybe they don't. Maybe it's not my family's fault at all and maybe I just told myself I had to be perfect? Maybe I'm just looking for someone to blame about my own problems. But then again, maybe my family is more at fault then I am? After all, it is my mother who told me I can't have anger issues when I was 6 because I wasn't 40, it is my mother who told me no one was treating me like dirt and I didn't want to die because I was too young to know what I wanted when I was 7, it is my mother who called me obnoxious. Maybe it's all my mothers fault? Or maybe I'm dramatic. Maybe I'm stupid. Maybe I'm unrealistic. And unreliable. And untrustworthy. Maybe I'm the problem. And I wish I could say I could solve the problem, but I can't even do basic math. So how can I fix me?

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