english,
Ever since I was little, I was taught what perfect meant. It meant getting all the answers right in a test. It meant arranging your books by size on the shelf. It meant keeping all your nails neat and in the same length and shape. It meant fixing your hair until no single strand is on your face. It meant wearing a uniform without any creases or marks. It meant all your notes should be aligned and no unnecessary markings on the margins. It meant practicing your handwriting until it looks like it was printed. It meant having everything neat, tidy, filled and aligned.
Growing up, I was told to be perfect. I had to perfect all the tests. I had to arrange my things by size, by color or by date. I had to practice my handwriting until I can’t. I had to learn how to fix my hair up until it wasn’t unruly like it really is. I had to know how to file my nails all in the same length and shape. I had to keep everything neat, tidy, filled and aligned.
Then, I can’t live without it. I can’t leave a room knowing there’s one chair out of place. I can’t go to school with one single strand bothering my face. I can’t submit an assignment with too many marks of a correction tape. I can’t stand not getting perfect scores on my tests. I can’t live with my nails not in the same length. I can’t wear my uniform if it’s not pressed. I don't like it but I can’t live if something’s not neat, tidy, filled or aligned.
When I met you, I thought you could use some help. Your hair was always disheveled because you don’t comb, you just run your fingers through it. Your glasses would sometimes be slightly askew. Your notes are not neatly compiled but rather thrown about inside your bag, written in different papers, sometimes even on school letters. You don’t bite your nails but you always cut too far into your nail bed where neat white crescent moons should appear. Your handwriting is chaotic, always all over the place, with your name always written in capital letters. You were never neat nor tidy and nothing about you was perfect.
But every time you run your fingers through your hair, every time I see you push your glasses up your nose, every time I see you make big gestures in front while reporting and standing somewhat slanted, every time I hear you laugh in a tone I have never heard from anybody else, every time you make a joke or tell a story with the most random content, every time I see you smile a tilted smile with one curve slightly higher than the other, I understand a little bit more what perfect really means.
There's something in those deep brown eyes behind the canted glasses. Maybe it's the way they sparkle and light up every time you laugh too much. There's something in your stare when you run your fingers through your hair and look in the distance as if contemplating about who knows what. There's something in your smile, when I see it first thing in the morning or even it the middle of the day that makes everything feel like bliss, like sitting on top of the world. I don’t know what to call that something but it’s wonderful.
I could always try and try to keep my hair up, neat and tidy. But every time I see you being you, I think, maybe I should let my hair down for a bit too. In hopes that maybe you'll see me, not as someone trying to be perfect, but as someone being real and true.
Literary: Perfection
Ever since I was little, I was taught what perfect meant. It meant getting all the answers right in a test. It meant arranging your books by size on the shelf. It meant keeping all your nails neat and in the same length and shape. It meant fixing your hair until no single strand is on your face. It meant wearing a uniform without any creases or marks. It meant all your notes should be aligned and no unnecessary markings on the margins. It meant practicing your handwriting until it looks like it was printed. It meant having everything neat, tidy, filled and aligned.
Growing up, I was told to be perfect. I had to perfect all the tests. I had to arrange my things by size, by color or by date. I had to practice my handwriting until I can’t. I had to learn how to fix my hair up until it wasn’t unruly like it really is. I had to know how to file my nails all in the same length and shape. I had to keep everything neat, tidy, filled and aligned.
Then, I can’t live without it. I can’t leave a room knowing there’s one chair out of place. I can’t go to school with one single strand bothering my face. I can’t submit an assignment with too many marks of a correction tape. I can’t stand not getting perfect scores on my tests. I can’t live with my nails not in the same length. I can’t wear my uniform if it’s not pressed. I don't like it but I can’t live if something’s not neat, tidy, filled or aligned.
When I met you, I thought you could use some help. Your hair was always disheveled because you don’t comb, you just run your fingers through it. Your glasses would sometimes be slightly askew. Your notes are not neatly compiled but rather thrown about inside your bag, written in different papers, sometimes even on school letters. You don’t bite your nails but you always cut too far into your nail bed where neat white crescent moons should appear. Your handwriting is chaotic, always all over the place, with your name always written in capital letters. You were never neat nor tidy and nothing about you was perfect.
But every time you run your fingers through your hair, every time I see you push your glasses up your nose, every time I see you make big gestures in front while reporting and standing somewhat slanted, every time I hear you laugh in a tone I have never heard from anybody else, every time you make a joke or tell a story with the most random content, every time I see you smile a tilted smile with one curve slightly higher than the other, I understand a little bit more what perfect really means.
There's something in those deep brown eyes behind the canted glasses. Maybe it's the way they sparkle and light up every time you laugh too much. There's something in your stare when you run your fingers through your hair and look in the distance as if contemplating about who knows what. There's something in your smile, when I see it first thing in the morning or even it the middle of the day that makes everything feel like bliss, like sitting on top of the world. I don’t know what to call that something but it’s wonderful.
I could always try and try to keep my hair up, neat and tidy. But every time I see you being you, I think, maybe I should let my hair down for a bit too. In hopes that maybe you'll see me, not as someone trying to be perfect, but as someone being real and true.
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