Caged by the oppression of perfection.
I’m not good enough.
My breasts are too small.
My hips are too wide.
My nose is too crooked.
I’m too strong.
I’m too loud, but too quiet.
I’m nothing without,
and too much with…
My age doesn’t show,
Unless you look close,
And find the lines
That define my time on this Earth.
I’m caged by the oppression of perfection. Everyone has a word to cast my way. I’m too much, or too little, but never just right. I share, or I care with exuberance, and heart, but people only want what they want, and my thoughtfulness always supererogatory.
I do what I do with pleasure. I only take on what I can complete. I balance my boundaries and limits, but often allow others to trample my peace.
I allow the words of others to cast shadows on my smile. I see my reflection though smoke covered glasses, hiding my beauty, revealing only what simply isn’t good enough.
I try to shape my body into something that makes me confident. Nothing changes the parts that are programmed to be imperfect.
I try to taper my moods to please the people around me. Nothing pleases anyone, from my silence, to my speaking, I’m always not what the room requires. I live to be seen, and not heard, or heard, but not seen. At times, invisibility is the cloak I wear for my own sanity, and protection.
My presence walks through the minds of many people. Some try to shake my memory from their thoughts, while others create fiction with my name. Some believe they know me, attending to my whims, and delights. They try, but fail in action before their initiatives take flight. Some reach out to touch me, through words, or with a hug. Those I trust are let in; those I can’t should be shut out…but they are not. I wear my vulnerability on my skin, a tattoo, a scar, an invitation to enter my walls and judge me, leaving me captured and caged by the oppression of the perfection that I am expected to portray, and maintain…