Perfect





I am beautiful
I am beautiful
I am beautiful
I chant every morning
Trying to believe it,
Trying not to give in.
Still, an hour later,
Standing in front of the
Full length mirror, stark-naked,
All I can see are imperfections.
My eyes graze over my own body.
Graze over the skin,
That needs to be porcelain smooth
To be called perfect.
I feel myself cringe,
As I notice the craters on my body,
And count them, running my hands over them,
One by one.
My eyes move up my body,
Reaching the lips that are
Just not red enough,
And hence need to be painted,
With colour, with blood.
It’s difficult.
It’s difficult meeting my own eyes,
Which are small and dull,
And equally lifeless,
And need to be lined with kohl,
To be called pretty.
Perfection isn’t synonymous to me.
To become perfect,
I’ve to paint myself over and over,
In a thousand different shades,
Mould myself into something I’m not,
Something I can never become.

 

Who defined perfect?
I ask, looking into the mirror,
But those neatly painted lips don’t move.
The kohl-lined eyes are blank,
Even though they look perfect now.
I have attained perfection,
Without knowing what it means.
When I look into the mirror,
I see a stranger,
All painted and polished,
But not me.




In the process of becoming perfect,
I have lost myself.
And somehow,
The perfection that I so desired
Has become a burden,
In an unknown way
Similar to a noose around my neck.
I want my imperfections back,
Along with the scars and craters,
But no matter how hard I try,
The paint doesn’t wash away;
I cannot peel it off
With my perfectly manicured nails.
My imperfect soul,
Is trapped inside a perfect body,
Which is, in its own way, a prison,
A prison from where noone can escape.
And it’s funny, how I now want,
To become imperfect,
Like I had once wanted to become perfect,
And succeeded, but,
There’s no way this time.

 


Image Source: flickr.com


 

 


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