I am an essay
chock full of little red lines
hilighting my errors,
underlining the mistakes
and even criticizing my best points.

Intro
Body
Body
Body
Bodybodybodybodybody

Dysmorphia

I am a grade at the top right of a page,
always measuring
never measuring up,
constantly looking for percentages
and congratulatory approval
“great job, A+”
and only finding binary,
lifeless code behind my eyes
telling me two different versions
of the same truthlie:
010111010000

0000000000000

0

0

0

“binary thought”
one or zero
black or white
left or right 
no two ways about it
but only two ways to see it
pass or fail
but it never mattered
because it was all in red
the whole time

In my head, there are two voices:
one telling me to do it
one whispering don’t
as if I ever had a choice in the matter.

My margins are filled with error
and my margin of error
is unforgiving at best. 

I crumple the page to start again,
hold down the backspace key,
and wonder if this time,
maybe,

My words won’t be cut
and my arms and legs won’t be
chock full of little red lines
marking places where perfection should be 
and instead
is only failure.