Her hair sits flat,

styled at will.

I woke up that way.

Okay. Sure.

Everything she does,

every act : Perfection.

Every way she acts,

every movement : Flawless.

Even her flaws are flawless.

She is surely some divine entity.

Loved by all.

Envied.

Desired.

Well, I’m not perfect.

Okay. Sure.

False modesty will get you nowhere,

Apate, resurrected.

You have no knowledge of how correct you really are -

You who are always correct.

We already know of your faults.

Your inability to admit they exist,

if not in falsity.

You wear a facade, guarding your heels against the arrows

loosed by the world that we are all victim to.

You accomplish all and nothing

in the same precious fragments of time.

Somehow, “God” seems dramatic.

Somehow, “Divine” does not appeal to me.

Somehow, it all seems far too much work.

And for what?

To be the best.

The greatest.

The most god-like.

For it’s all a contest, you see.

Ever since you started this crazy mess.

You’ve been in it to win.

“Survival of the Fittest.”

Something we learn along the way.

But competition is not quite my forte.

I’m the story teller; the fantasy enthusiast; the one who tries and succeeds

not because I need to and cannot accept failure.

Because I want to and can.

Unlike those gods, I know the meaning of “procrastination.”

Unlike those gods, I promote its occasional use and feel no remorse.

I know the meanings of “break-time,” “time-out,” and “stop.”

So no. I am no god.

I strive towards no perfection.

Should I reach it, by all means - I will gladly reach up and snatch it from the heavens.

I am but human, after all.

But the imperfections are what I find ideal.

You learn from imperfections. You think from imperfections.

From its antonym, you drown.

Fine - if you insist. I am flawless.