i am not perfection
i am clumsy, wandering off the straight path.
most mornings, I wake up late—
and on the ones I don’t,
it’s only because I never slept at all.

people say I’m good at drawing,
but how good could I really be?
not every sketch I start finds its end;
some get crossed out, others fade away.
i wonder if they call me “good”
only in comparison to themselves—
but they don’t know
that neither of us can draw a perfect circle.

they say I’m “smart,” but what have I done to deserve that title?
maybe I’m just good at guessing,
or maybe their words lead me in the right direction.
they don’t know I have to reteach myself everything
just to keep up.

they say I’m “pretty,” but what does that truly mean?
a physical compliment only goes so far—
beauty is bound to someone’s personal standards.
they don’t know that I’ve stopped caring
what other people think.

they say I’m “bold,” but why wouldn’t I try
to reach for the things I want?
we only live once,
and I’d rather spend my life trying than not.
they don’t know that I’m just scared—
scared of standing still,
scared of not becoming someone I can be proud of,
scared of dying with the regret
of what could’ve been.