Perfection

I am perfect.
Perhaps someone would disagree were they from a different culture…a different time.
And they have.
But technically speaking, I am physically perfect. My skin has never known the meaning of a blemish, the feel of disease. My muscles have never ached, my bones never broken, my eye-sight has never dimmed. And none of it ever will. Sometimes I will claw at my face just to see what could happen, but nothing does. The skin remains free from flaw, absent of imperfection. I don’t understand the language of physical pain. My ears fall deaf to complaints of bodily ailments and beauty problems.
My perfection has made me an alien to the species I claim to be a part of.