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Almost at 100 percent.
Maybe someday.
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Everything is happy.
Even the sounds of glass breaking.
Or a shoe stomping off snow.
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My car is small.
I cried when my old nightstand didn’t fit.
Everything is broken.
Except my car, so I use it to run.
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You will never have.
100 percent.
Of anything.
Even your hair.
Because you plucked out strands out of stress.
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Nothing will be complete.
That class picture that I stood in.
My smile wasn’t great.
Not good enough.
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99 percent perfect.
Is the worst thing in the world.
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