She's... Perfect. The way her hair wraps into a bun Perfect. How her dress glides across the floor Perfect. Her posture Perfect. Even the way sunlight glimmers around her A little brighter than everyone else Perfect. The word pounds in my head constantly Perfect Perfect Perfect Perfect Perfect The more I hear the word The more I realize how dark and twisted it is We have this idea That 'perfect' means that everything is exemplary No, not even exemplary There isn't a word that can define it as it is It means everything is ideal The way it /should/ be To put it in the best of terms But the term 'perfect' is just an illusion Beacuse there's no such thing Though the idea is dark and twisted It doesn't exist Herself? She's human And no human's got all of life figured out Her bun? It has flaws Like how a hairstrand pokes out at the back of her bun Her dress? It's got unsmoothed crinkles And the gliding is a rough ride in heels The sunlight that glimmers? It doesn't glimmer in the best spots all the time Her posture? It's really good But there's no such thing as perfect posture Everyone's posture is tilted Even if it's slight That just goes to show 'Perfect' doesn't exist It's just something that shadows over How you see yourself Compared to everyone else Everyone's imperfect And that's what makes them interesting That's what makes us care We have strengths And we have flaws So quit using imperfect as an insult And just know: Perfect doesn't exist Even though it feels As if that pressure Is tied tight Around your wrist
