i am a perfectionist. there’s no harm to it!

i have no problem 

with redrawing the same, 

tacky line until the almost 

impossible to see curves disappear.

i have no problem 

rewriting my notes

even if my hand cramps up. 

even if it takes hours. 

i have no problem 

with waking up at 5:30 AM precisely, 

even if i went to bed at 

2 AM the night before. 

i have no problem

with the pain that comes

with it, either!

the pain in my head grows hungry,

attacking every part of my brain it 

could devour. yet, the jabbing pain

is worth the perfect outcome. 

i am a perfectionist. 

being perfect should 

be easy for me. 

it is easy for me.

yet when the girl in front of me 

gets a higher grade, 

i can’t help to compare 

her accomplishment 

to my humiliating failure 

yet when i get an answer wrong 

and the sound of giggles 

and mumbles fills my ears, 

I can’t help the tears that escape. 

yet when i get yelled at 

by my teammates for 

not doing the play right.

i can’t help but go silent, 

i can’t help but choke up, 

i can’t help the tears that 

kiss my cheeks.

yet when i cry! 

for being sad, mad, happy, 

frustrated, p*ssed, joyful–any 

emotion that isn’t content.

i can’t help but 

feeling pathetic.

i can’t help the trembling

of my hands.

the sky–it understands. 

it understands that not everything is 

all rainbows even after they cry. 

it understands that 

this feeling can last for days or weeks upon time

it understands that some days are just too hard

so it lets the gray show.

it understands me.

i am a perfectionist. but that isn’t true

cause how can i be a perfectionist 

when everything i do is 

imperfect?