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Poem

practice does not make perfect
practice makes permanent 
it makes perseverance 
most of all i think it makes 

perfectionism.

as a child you were constantly 
told by your parents, 
teachers,
friends,
family
you were “such a perfectionist!”
a joke to them but it follows you
like your shadow in the summertime 
you see the scene is set for you and you 
must be

nothing less than perfect. 

ScienceDirect.com notes it is 
often accompanied by tendencies 
to be overly critical of what you see
when the mirror is finally cleaned 

you stand in that mirror 
lean in and fog up the glass
with your breath 
in the mist it tells you

“perfect does not exist”

and yes it knows you’ve heard 
that phrase time and time again
but i think it’s time you finally listened 

hovering over the sink 
picking at your nose and cheeks
bright pink blush in hopes they won’t see
but i see you

i see your heart 
you wear it on your sleeve
next to the tear stains and 
colorful paints and pottery clay 

she knows this but not 
in the same way 

i see the scars but under them 
i know is her

a breathing person with a pulse 
with kind eyes and infectious smile
a laugh that fills the room 
and is contagious like the flu 

i know she loves me,
and i hope she knows
i love her too

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