a perfect paradox

I know a girl

with 'perfect' written on her wrist,

and I think it’s funny because

it isn’t perfect at all.

When I say perfect, I mean it literally -

whether it be ballpoint pen or tattoo ink,

it is crooked and off center.

It is almost as if

my mother, bless her

typed it with her terrified, trembling fingers,

and tried to format it to make it beautiful.

With that in mind, it is not beautiful, not at all -

it is messy, sloppy, and the font isn’t consistent either,

but I like it

because you see,

it reminds me of me.

I too may wash away with enough tears and scrubbing,

I too may fade away over years of being ignored,

I too do not stand straight

and I never have lived in the center stage.

My mother made me, and yet I am not beautiful,

and I am messy and sloppy and inconsistent just like that.

I know a girl

with 'perfect' written on her wrist,

and it showed me that

even perfect doesn’t have to be perfect,

and so neither do I.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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