Excerpts From Stories I'll Never Write

The Definition of Perfect: A Poem

The dictionary definition of "perfect" is as follows:

"Conforming absolutely to the description or definition of an ideal type"

We all have our heads wrapped around this whole perfection thing. Some more tightly than others, but you, I'm surprised you haven't been choked by metal binds of these seven letters yet. But then again, I'm not surprised because all you do is project those binds on to me, like they're lights that will manipulate the darkness to form a silhouette that is unemployed and up for the job of being my shadow, as if I didn't have one already.

I don't fit the cookie cutter you've placed up to me. It's like you're trying to make pasta from bread dough or only finding a cure for your thirst in a drink that is unobtainable, even though you're facing a glass of ice water. What you're trying to do is only making your goal farther away. You're trying to make a peasant a princess, but you can't do that.

And don't think I haven't heard everything you've said. It's just that it's slowly become a rhythm that I've dismissed to be ringing in the back of my ear. Your words like nails against a blackboard are carved into every corner of my mind. Your words are the reason my hands shake when I talk to anyone, the reason I'm sobbing in my room spontaneously at two a.m. Your words are what nightmares are made of, your words are what my nightmares are made of.

So, I'm sorry I'm not perfect. I'm sorry that I'm not a walking, breathing Michelangelo sculpture.

But I can paint masterpieces with the same 26 letters, and if I show them to you, you only see a blank page. I can create lightning bolts with just my fingertips, I can turn your whole world upside down, and when I do, all you'll feel is a little dizzy, and all you'll hear is the quiet pitter patter of an April shower. I'm changing the world, I'm bending rules and making my own. My ceiling is your floor, you just don't know it yet. And the lines get blurry right about here because I know I'm not perfect, but my goal for myself isn't the same one you have for me.

So I'm sorry I'm not perfect. But maybe you aren't either. Someone who holds people smaller than themselves to expectations they can't reach for themselves should not be considered ideal.

But maybe I'm wrong, maybe my opinion doesn't matter, maybe my definition is wrong. After all, that's what you've conditioned me to think.

Nevermind all that. I'm sorry I've ranted, I'm sorry I've wasted your time, I'm sorry for not sitting perfectly still and quiet like you told me to. I'm sorry for speaking my mind. I'm sorry I'm not perfect.