Luminous [A poetry collection] ~ Canvas of Words

~ p e r f e c t ~

Trigger warning
This poem contains some light swearing.
If you don't feel comfortable with this kind of content, please do not read.

~~~~~~~~~~

She wants to be perfect.
It's what she is used to.

A pretty smile,
an impressive grade,
private commitment,
and another perfect day will be over.

A perfect day.

She's not exactly popular,
but neither do people avoid her.
She's the smart,
friendly girl that some know from Spanish class.

She has a big heart,
and attentive ears,
observing eyes
and not many fears.

No fears.
Perfect.

Her friends adore her
for the jokes she cracks,
for the helping hands,
she's got their backs.

She's full of energy,
always eager
to reach her goals,
an overachiever.

Perfect.

She plays the piano,
and loves to read,
she's exercised,
a tough mind to beat.

But most of all,
she's a diligent girl.
Hard-working, ambitious,
intelligent, too.

Perfect...

Her life is like a thin rope,
with her on top of it,
trying her hardest
not to fall down.

Keep the balance.
Don't stumble.
Perfect.

Each piece of thread,
that peeks out from its place
needs to be covered up
by her
and her only.

You don't need to rest.
Bullshit.
Keep going.
Perfect.

She's not the one to make mistakes,
and people admire her for that.
A bad grade?
No.
A confused question?
Never.

Her life really couldn't be any better.
It seems perfect, even.

Perfect...

Keep going.

There aren't even tears.
Except for ones of joy,
or when a sad movie is playing,
but otherwise,
she never cries.

Why would she?
There is no need to cry.
No need to cry.
No need to cry.
No need to cry...

She doesn't cry,
although she could,
maybe,
maybe when she does make a mistake,
or when she can't fiddle one of the threads
back into place.

Bullshit.

I lied.
She does it.
She does cry, sometimes.
When things get too stressful,
then she gets anxious,
and then,
maybe then,
a tear or two will slip from her eye.

Her head hurts.
Not because of her tight ponytail
or because she drank too little water that day,

Bullshit.
That would be a mistake.
You don't make mistakes.

but because of the invisible pressure,
the one you can't see,
a force,
controlling her like a puppet,
threatening to push her off the rope.

"Who is it, that puts so much pressure upon you?",
they ask,
ha,
funny question,
they wouldn't guess the answer.

They wouldn't guess
that she is the one,

Perfect.
Don't stumble.
Perfect.

they wouldn't guess,
that it is her own mind
gaining weight,
more and more,

Bullshit.
Keep going.

her head is threatening to explode,

Perfect.

somebody help her,
somebody heal her,
somebody save her

Perfect...

from her own daggers
she stabs herself with.

Save me...
Keep going...

Because what defines her,
if not what she does?
What will be her identity,
if not what she achieves?
Her life,
her being,
is measured in success,
and if there's no success,
what's going to be left?

Let me scream...
No mistakes.

But there will be nothing.
There will be no one.

She knows,
because how could she expect them to help?

She doesn't talk.
Not about the daggers.

All she'll do is walk,
walk across the rope,
seemingly stretching on out forever.

Perfect...

She has to be perfect.
It's the decision she made.