I catch myself again,
Picking the writers knot on my finger—
A habit, a fear, a quiet shame,
A flaw. Perfect as is.

I stop myself again,
My skin traced in ghost-white lines,
Be kind to the body healing, a body marked.
I hate them. I thank them. I hate them again.

I forgot that…that thing!
Yet I remember too much of what doesn’t serve me.
I care too much—
There is nothing wrong with you, your quirks, or your image.
I am fine as is.

I have never learned to hide my feelings.
I cannot fake belief. Or pretend to be.
I am horrible at math.
I have chased perfection until I have bled.

My mind does not rest.
Just please…
Not at night, not in silence, not even now.
Let me think!

And yet—

When I stand before the mirror,
When I meet my own eyes,
Dark and deep as earth,
When I count each imperfection like a tally in a game—

I tell myself a lie.
Or maybe it is the only truth I know.
Yes, you. The reflection is real.
I am perfect as is.