Perfection

You strip me bare of everything and anything I am.

I'm naked.

Always, naked in front of all of you.

All my flaws out in the open.

Nothing I can hide or cover up.

I still want to be perfect.

You see me.

You all see me.

Naked.

Bare.

Yet I still want to be perfect

I want to be good enough.

To be worth it.

I want you all to like me.

I don't even know all of you and I still want you to like me.

I still search and beg for your approval.

I want to  be perfect in everything that I do.

I want to have the flat stomach.

The beautiful legs and feet.

I want to be effortlessly beautiful.

I want to have the best smile.

I want to have  European hair like the Caucasians  do.

I want to fit in.

I want to fit in, so that I can feel the perfection.

I don't want to screw-up all the time.

I want to be seen.

I want perfection.

I need perfection.

I crave it like this unwilling desire that no human being should have.

I want to stop.

I want to stop everything.

Anything.

I, desire to feed the darkness.

I want to isolate myself.

I want to starve myself.

To purge.

To binge.

I don't do these things but I want to.

I want to achieve perfection in the most dangerous of ways.

 I want it all.

As a young child, I dreamed of becoming beautiful.

Instead, I've become uglier.

I have people telling me that I'm beautiful.

As a compliment.

As a fact.

As an opinion.

But instead, it just hurts to have those words said to me.

"You're really pretty" or "You're very beautiful".

It just hurts.

I want to tell them to stop.

Stop the lies.

I'm not pretty or effortlessly beautiful.

I never will be.

No, matter what I do, I'll always be ugly.

I want to tell them to "stop this bullshit".

But I can't.

When someone compliments you, your just suppose to take it.

Whether or not you believe it, is up to you.

So, I smile.

I smile an in genuine smile that doesn't reveal what I'm really thinking.

My big, ugly chipmunk cheek smile, that people adore for some reason.

And I say "thank you" and walk away.

I think to myself, if I was perfect... then I'd be pretty or effortlessly beautiful.

But I'm not.

I'm plain.

Effortlessly simple.

And I hate myself more for not being so.

I just want to be good enough.

In everything I do.

In every word I write.

Every story I create. 

Every moment or timeframe, that exist in life.

I want to be someone's perfect harmony or melody.

I want to be someone that someone wants.

I want to be the only girlfriend or best friend that they want.

I want to be the person that matters to someone.

That someone needs to have in their life.

For once, I want to be the one that someone else just can't live without.

I want to inspire and aspire.

I want to be someone that makes someone else whole.

I want for every one of my talents to mean something to someone.

I want to be a good writer.

A good actress.

A good photographer.

A good person.

A good mother, someday.

A good partner.

A good cook.

A happy person.

I just want to believe I can be good at these things.

And to achieve them.

I just want to be good enough.

I want to matter.

To mean something to the world.

I want to achieve perfection even though I know that's not possible in an imperfect world.

But still I want perfection.

How stupid to want to achieve something that is impossible?

How stupid to think that every time I write a story, I'll be able to get approval?

That I'll be able to get approval and not have to delete it, like I always do?

What ever happened to just writing because it made me feel good?

Why am I always after approval?

I know.

I figured out, how imperfect I was.

That I screw-up.

And to me that meant I needed approval, so I could feel like I was perfect.

But I'm not.

I'm imperfect.