I’d like to meet the man who defined “perfect.”
the man who made millions hate themselves;
torture themselves,
physically
and mentally.
souring the lives of so many,
would he care?

On behalf of meeting this man,
I would ask...
what on Earth or hell makes him dignified
to tell my friend that she isn’t thin enough.
I wonder how he would feel knowing that
his very own definition of “perfect”
had moved her to starve herself.

And after that, so many more questions.
I wouldn’t be able to help asking him simply
why certain things are perfect versus imperfect.
and how he went about drawing that fine line
between the ugly
and the beautiful.
what makes a face with pimples
less attractive than a face with paint?
how is the girl who worries
less put together than one who doesn’t care?
tell me the very reason that a rich man
is greater than the poor man?
why is the girl who is skinny
more worthy than the girl who has fat?

Bewildered by the power that
whoever this man may be
has over the people in the world I live in,
I am angry.
so, I have chosen not to listen to him.
not to make my own meaning of the word “perfect,”
but to ignore the entire word
and its ideals.
I refuse to let anyone tell me that
I’m not good enough.
because I don’t need to be “perfect.”
I doesn’t buy the concept.

Promise me,
that the way you view yourself
won’t be impacted by what this man,
or the society that believes him,
thinks is “perfect.”