"perfect."

I pick at my face

on a daily basis.

Rub my fingers over

my acne scars and oily skin,

every unwanted mark

that supposedly makes 

me beautiful.

I try to convince myself

I'm this "imperfect slice of perfection"

all these influencers

claim I am.

But it's ironic

how they all say

the same thing, feeding

us captions that don't

match their images.

Their fuel is body-positivity and self-love,

yet they all have the

figure of a goddess,

skin of a newborn.

But they tell their

human money trees,

branches bent, pigment faded,

to love themselves

like it's easy.

I wonder when the day will come,

where I'm finally able

to look in the mirror without

tears in my eyes

and without some wannabe

influencer's TikTok audio

in the background telling me

to love every ugly

part of myself

I'll never be able to.

I impatiently wait for

the fog to clear

to reveal an open, beautiful

sky that my eyes reflect,

pupils twinkling when

I see myself.

I sit for infinity, awaiting the

arrival of my not only

model-like, but unreasonably expected body:

clear skin,

silky hair,

flat stomach,

invisible waist,

hairless,

thin,

clean nails,

stereotypical Barbie,

perfect.

Why should such a word exist if it cannot describe a single person on this earth?

I'm not yet convinced

that I'm a goddess,

and maybe I never will be.

But maybe someday,

a pair of eyes will

look at me and bow down

to worship my imperfections,

whether they are my eyes,

or the eyes of a person

whose definition of beauty

does not exclude

the unique flaws of human beings.