i like my imperfections
my bags, my chipped tooth, my messy hair.
i like a snagged collar, worn in boots, and faded jeans.
i like things with character and purpose.
perfection serves no one.

my bags are designer.
my chipped tooth is the hanging cliff before what i say next.

i like things that look lived in.
my clothes worn.
a wrinkled tee,
a rug with stains in it.

my hair is uneven.
you take a second look when i’m speaking.

i like things that tell a story.
that mean something.

like my tweety pillow,
torn into shreds,
held together by stitching
that’s coming apart,
a pillowcase covering what it used to be.
you can’t even tell what it is anymore,
but the meaning still holds.

or the pair of hollister jeans
i wore until they split clean down the middle.

or my leather jacket from 09,
worn into a beautiful patina.

or my grandmother’s copper bracelet,
turned almost green.

it’s between veneers and a story
how’d you chip your tooth
why do you look like that
how do you still hold up your smile

imperfection has never been enough to stop me.

i’ve lived this.
i’ve been looked at and questioned,
shunned, mimicked, mocked.
i’ve been ashamed, embarrassed, sad.

i practiced my smile in the mirror.
prepared for picture days.
was told i couldn’t model,
that i was too short,
that my imperfections were too imperfect for praise.

like the girl who keeps raising her hand,
while people snicker in the back.
but she’s doing the lord’s work
asking the questions
you’re too afraid to raise your hand for.

imperfections that go unnoticed,
but still improve.
imperfections some people ridicule,
and others obsess over.

i like my girl’s grey hairs,
they don’t wait their turn.
her quick temper,
how it speaks before she edits it.

another white hair
earned.

i’m drawn to it,
the way her passion turns,
how it burns into something else
and leaves its mark.

i like the things people tell you to fix,
because those are the very things that stand out.

i like a mug with a chip in it,
porcelain.
it reminds me of myself.

it still works completely fine,
and something about that missing part
makes my tea taste better.

i like those photos they take of you at amusement parks,
the ones that exaggerate everything
your biggest insecurity turned into art,
into a memory,
into something you laugh at.

i had one.
they made my forehead bigger than it is.
it sat in my grandmother’s house forever.
she always pointed it out.

i like the vending machine
you have to hit
just to get my oreo cakes out.

perfection is nothing but a quiet undoing.
a wearing down.
a soft surrender.
a polished disappearance.

i will not be closed in.
i seek promotion.
i seek growth and change.
i seek to be seen in many ways.
i seek truth and gain.

perfection is a box set with pain.
you are the expectation.
you are the result.
you are the byproduct.
you are the production.
you are the tool for consumerism.
you are the example.

i want to be myself.
to be free.
to define my own needs.

i want to have a say.
i want to have proof
of existence,
of improvement.

there is nothing to look forward to if you’re perfect.
perfect serves no one.

what is the gain
if you already are what you’re meant to be
if perfection means catering to others’ needs
to show,
but not to be
to be present,
but not to see
to have blood,
but not to bleed
not in a way that counts
at least.

missing perfection,
a whole world of perception.
don’t let deception dictate
what deserves to be seen,
what deserves to be loved,
what you allow yourself to be.

something about the missing part
is what makes it mine.

like the chip in the mug,
like the edge of my tooth
not broken
just proof
that i was here.

a piece broken on the playground,
snapped against a metal bar.

i put a cap on it
and went on about my day
forcing perfection.

the cap came out
while i was eating a mentos
in the elevator.

no insurance.
no money to fix it.

reality sank in.
imperfections, insecurities
crawling deep into my mind.

i practiced my smile before picture days.
dimmed my light.
spoke less.

smile despite the shame,
the loss,
the break.

the cap couldn’t hide the truth.
the cap couldn’t fix the pain.

imperfection shows reality.
living in your truth
is what makes life worth it.

and now
my chipped tooth is still the hanging cliff
before what i say next.

you wait beside it.
and my imperfect teeth tell you anyway.