I have never claimed to be perfect, but perfectionism is the disease that grips my motives and mind. This is not who I am, but the mere illusion of perfectionism creates the mirage that this is entirely me. There is no grace, no allotment for fallout should I fail to reach the standard. The problem is that I am the mastermind, the evil genius that crafted a monster I can no longer control. In this intricate, inexplicable relationship I am in, I know it is toxic. By pretending to be perfect, I have led others to believe that I am somehow capable of being more than human.
My poem, “Angles,” is my plea for you to see beyond the façade I present. There are always more sides to a story.
Angles
At the right angle,
I look put together.
Lines paint me refined,
but someone smeared the ink.
I look put together,
painted with empathy,
but someone smeared the ink,
filling me with apathy.
Painted with empathy,
sympathy –
filling me with apathy –
becomes my company. My pathology.
Sympathy –
a reaction to guilty thanks –
becomes my company. My pathology
in conversations laced with accusations.
A reaction to guilty thanks
in conversations laced with accusations –
I’m lying.
I’m smiling
through teeth tight like a zipper.
I’m lying
with a hollow laugh.
Through teeth tight like a zipper
I grind my words into dust.
With a hollow laugh
I’m begging for salvation.
I grind my words into dust,
truth rotting behind wrought-iron bars.
I’m begging for salvation
from quiet contemplation.
Truth rotting behind wrought-iron
from quiet contemplation.
Please move.
Invisible to your point of view,
Please move.
Not every angle is right.
Originally published in The Regis vol. 8 no. 1
Featured image via Joshua Rawson-Harris on Unsplash
