She walks around with her perfect little smile,
but it’s all plastic.
She can stretch into anyone you need,
like a piece of elastic.
She’s almost perfect — but not quite.
She stresses about keeping
all of her flaws out of sight.
She shines,
we break.
She has to be perfect,
or else her life is at stake.
Every smile is rehearsed,
the truth never gets a line.
Some call her perfect,
but I call her
a masterpiece of pretending.
The fakeness,
it’s never-ending.
The stage shines brighter with her smile.
the other actors — gone and forgotten.
No one sees
that she’s rotten.
She calls it grace,
I call it bad acting
with makeup on.
Her hair holds in place
as she glides on the stage,
her outfit shining
amongst the others.
Most people fall for her —
no one lands soft.
She wears compliments like perfume,
sweet enough to hide the rot,
while choking others
flawlessly.
She shrinks others
just to fit
in her small frame.
They call her frame flawless,
but I’ve seen the uneven edges.
I’ve felt the scrape.
Perfection only hurts
when you’re the one it cuts through.
And I start to wonder
if I was too messy
to be fixed.
But it’s not me —
no, not anymore.
I’ll let her shine alone.
I’ll let her perfect reflection
be her home.
I won’t compete
and then cry in defeat.
Because I know:
you can’t compete with pretend.
Perfect isn’t power.
It’s just fear
and flaws
in a prettier dress.
I might be cracked,
I might have flaws,
I might be real —
but at least when I break,
I don’t use beauty
as blame.