I’ve grown up with imperfection, not in spite of it but because of it. I am the scars on a face that was almost perfect, the flaw in the mirror that distorts what should have been beautiful. I am the spilt ink on a pristine page, the mistake that ruins the story before it’s even begun. I’m the tattoos on a handsome man’s skin, marks of defiance that tell tales of rebellion and regret. I am the bitter taste of cold coffee in the afternoon, a reminder that time slips away whether you’re ready or not. I am the id of a confused little girl, lost in a world that demands clarity she doesn’t have.
I’m the words you were about to write, the ones that hovered just at the edge of your mind, but you stopped because something felt wrong—because they were empty, hollow, just a little too raw. I am the embodiment of everything that is perfectly imperfect, the things that don’t quite fit, that gnaw at the edges of your peace.
The world’s lips have always whispered in the dark, joining with the cries of saints and sinners alike. “Do not hold her hand,” they say, “for it feels wicked, as if touched by something unholy. She’s evil because she is the mistake, and she is the same as the reminder that the cosmos is a cruel place.” But misfits like me don’t matter to people like you. Your mind is filled with thoughts too beautiful to be tainted by someone like me. Your eyes are galaxies, infinite in their depth, seeing things I could never grasp. Your wisdom is far beyond my reach, like the stars that hang in the sky, always there but always out of my grasp.
Maybe, just maybe, the only thing that matters to you is that I tried to be perfect for a world that never wanted me. Even my scars, those marks of pain and failure, longed to be something more, something closer to what the world demanded. But in the end, they’re just scars, just like me—trying to fit into a space that was never meant for us, trying to be whole in a world that thrives on brokenness. And maybe, that’s all there ever was to it.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.
