I’m not a perfect person.
On the outside I am a perfect shell of a reasonable person, expertly crafted from years of practice, watching other perfect people and using it to mould my outside.
I smile, I laugh, I hold hands with a boy and kiss him on the nose, tell him I have never been happier.
Because that’s what you do, that’s how you should act but on the inside I am wreck, I am falling apart and screaming with in pain, fueled by rage, filled to the brim with a longing to just be a normal perfect person.
Sometimes, I think, I’m not even a person at all.
I watch a group of perfect people, all laughing and joking with each other, their bond evident.
I’m not one of them, I can feel the difference I sit on the outside. I know, I do not belong but I act like I do.
I can smile and tell a joke and laugh along with them but inside the storm carries on.
Every once in a while my shell cracks, it takes so much effort to maintain, it cracks and all of my imperfect insides leak out.
The form of a cut, blood dripping down my arm. A pill too many, head spinning, puking in the toilet.
The perfect people look down on me, noses scrunched in disgust or eyes rolling in exasperation as all my imperfectness leaks out of me showing them my true self.
Why can’t you just be normal? I try, I really do.