I’m good enough

only because I suck at half of everything

I try to do.

Why is that a comfort?

Imagine the stress of perfection

the unanswerable questions

thrown at your feet

like sick children begging for relief.

Or the expectations

of always being just so

instead of screaming with primal

anger at the injustices of the world.

Imagine the monotonous days of no mistakes

no unseemly jumping for joy

none of the weaknesses of love or lust

clouding your perfect eyes.

That is not even to touch on the jealousy!

perfection has no admirers

only envious aspirers

yearning to wear your skin.

Better to be anonymous

learning thinking creating

and when it’s least expected

you’ve made something!

A stand

a choice

a solution

something beautiful, but horribly skewed too.

It’s majesty

and magic

and cuts

and cruelty

All packed into one person.

Not perfect. Flawless.