171/365 : perfectionism

maybe if i write this in a poem
i can get away with it

the this, the it
being the need to be perfect

or at least better than most
i know, it's so gross to admit

it feels like slime leaving my lips
i wish i could stick it back in and shit it out

flush it down the drain
into a spiraling spout of forgotten about

but i can't
it is with me today and i cannot expel its weight

i cannot make myself show you my low-quality film
i cannot let myself tell you the extent of my thill

just yesterday a woman asked if i would give her a name
it was an honor so great i nearly cried

just yesterday another woman told me our connection changed her life
just yesterday i wouldn't let myself revel in the delight

of sharing
of revealing
of letting you see me
in my glory
in my blurry
in my humanity

there's still something in me
locked way the fuck up

a tough lid to unlatch
an impossibly wet match

i envision myself smashing it to bits
10,022 tiny shards of truth
sparkling in the sunlight

i imagine at night walking barefoot on the sidewalk
stepping atop my old self
puncturing the soles of my feet
watching all the attachment bleed out of me

i imagine these visions won't happen
the dramatic won't unlatch what's haunting me

in fact, the dramatic will be the thing that keeps haunting me
this picture in my mind that something big will find and save me

from my fear
my fear of you knowing
my fear of you knowing me
my fear of you knowing that i want you to love me
my fear of loving me
my fear of loving
my fear of loving fear

i want to jump today from one small rock to the next
i want to cross the stream that way
and when i get into the forest
i want to give myself a loving rest