Misted Thoughts

The Relevance In You

Day by day I'm trying to distinguish
My reality into concrete boxes of life
Making molds called Perfection
And fitting people, things and I
Into those cubes and triangles
So that we "fit"
A perfectly concocted and coordinated piece of geometrical relevance.

Everyone says: you're a healer.
I look at it the other way around
I am no healer
Only a finder and hoarder of people who have bits and parts of their geometrical relevance
Cut out, torn apart or completely broken
And I try paint those parts for them
Again and again and again.
Like the time I gave a napkin to my best friend when we were 4.
Her being happy is my perfection.
Her smile is my sunshine
And I will continue to fix those broken parts till I know I've taped all the edges
Clean.
Like the times I listen to my parents
Wanting to be the perfect daughter
Fitting myself into molds of discomfort
Trying to be something I'm not
Not letting them stop judging my character

But every single time I venture out
To fix the broken and mold into new
I can't quite figure what the shapes would be
How to paint and which colors screams appropriate.
In the race to make you the perfect you
I take away everything you belong to.

The broken ran away, sometimes the broken argued
To touch, to fix, to fit into my molds.
I don't have an answer yet.

I guess that's why I hate perfect people
They don't fit into my molds
They aren't broken and I can't fix them
They have their own sunshine
When I can only be the moonlight.