Imperfect me
I have a nail on my right hand
that is dented with
weird-looking skin.
My nose is crooked.
I have two moles on
my right cheek
that used to bother me
so much so
I'd turn my head for pictures.
I'm learning to smile
from both sides.
I hate being late, but I usually am.
I get distracted easily
while cleaning
or writing
or dreaming.
I'll start with a drawer and
turn to see
scissors
lying on the floor,
a
reminder of a project
started
simultaneously.
I might finish both,
but I'm okay
if I don't.
I long for freedom and
adventure, and hold tight
memories like
rappelling down
the Swiss Alps,
but I'm still the girl who
stays up all night
worried
about edited sentences,
and misspoken words.
I'm learning to let go.
But letting go is its own beast.
What I release today usually
tries to return the next,
a
quiz just after a test,
unexpected,
to check
whether what I know was memorized or really learned.
I don't love crowds, but
I'm okay when
they're where they're
supposed to be,
like on the streets of
New York,
or LA
or Rome, Italy.
If people are genuine and real,
I don't mind if
there are lots of them.
I'm mellow, but fiery.
I'm tough, but happy
when I don't have to be.
I'm a dichotomy.
Given the choice,
I'd choose love
over anonymity,
but because I'm indecisive,
just writing that
kinda scares me.
I do that a lot though,
put myself out there.
I reach.
I stretch.
I branch out.
I might flounder
before I even out,
but I'm willing to grow,
and that makes me proud of me.
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