My mom calls me perceptive
because I’m good at finding the cracks in the plaster
but in the end I’m no faster
when it comes to determining the truth
in every façade.
What I mean to say is I’m a lot like you
in that I want you to think so
and in the end we all want to convince each other
that we’re nothing more than puzzle pieces
still looking for the right fit.
I’ve started spending most of my time
with my ear pressed against the wall
because even though I know it’s pointless
I keep hoping to hear someone say I’m beautiful.
I am beautiful
but no matter how fast I run I keep missing
the person I want to be remembered for.
There is no space in this insincere reality
for profound comments about the relativity of perfection.
We all know it’s unattainable
so we’re just getting better at hiding our faults,
which is to say that society is a slice of Swiss cheese
blaming you for the fact that its riddled with holes.
I once thought that being honest would rid me of this disease
but truthfulness is nothing more than talking in contradictions
and in the end I’m just another girl
afraid to get up in the morning
because she doesn’t know who she’ll see in the mirror.
I just can’t seem to lie in my poetry
because I’ve come to find
that poetry is the art of forgetting
all your favorite hiding places in the heart
of a game of hide and seek,
except nobody seems to be seeking.
We are too busy
masking ourselves in the belief of belonging when people
are not objects, puzzle pieces, mismatched parts of a set—
we can’t belong anywhere.
I’m working on a theory that perfection
isn’t meant to be created.
It’s just hiding in each of us
waiting to be found
and all we really have to do
is open our eyes wide enough.
I hope we can remember each other as we are: