We are never good enough,
To us, perfection is attainable,
But it’s always just out of reach.
We spend our lives chasing it
Like a child chases a butterfly
With a net that’s not quite long enough.

We read the emails that we write

Over and over again
Before sending them.
And after they’re sent, we go back
Into our Sent boxes
To see if we missed any commas or apostrophes,
Or said anything wrong
Or weird.

We look in the mirror everyday,
And see teeth that aren’t straight enough,
So what’s the point in brushing,
Skin that’s not smooth enough

So what’s the point in washing,
Eyes that aren’t good enough
So what’s the point in being?