Perfection

I never hated perfection 

until it looked like you, 

and then I hated you too. 

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I never hated perfection

until you held it in your hands,

as strong and sure as the earth

carrying us all. 

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I never hated perfection

until the way your arms swung wide

as if you deserved all the space

you take up, 

until the way your smile brightened

as if you deserved all the praise

they give you,

until the way your voice rang out

as if you deserved everyone’s gaze

and their eager eyes.

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I never hated perfection

until it made me wonder

why I want to take it from you. 

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I never hated perfection

until I wanted to crack your marble skin

and mine the gold sparkling in your eyes

and siphon the honey from your throat,

until I wanted to steal the treasures I swore

you had no right to own. 

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I never hated perfection

until it made me question

if I had the right, either. 

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I never hated perfection

until you made me feel this way,

the twisting in my stomach 

and the burning in my chest,

until I hated you more than ever,

but you always said my name

when we saw each other in the hallway. 

‍

I never hated perfection

until I realized that I’ve been chasing an illusion,

and that even your hands have been

dry and cracked and bleeding,

until I realized that I’ve been fighting a phantom,

and there is nothing wrong with

your face or words or mind. 

‍

I never hated perfection

until I wanted to be like you,

and then I knew I hated myself.