There’s a strange freedom in saying,
\"I don’t have it all together.\"
Like peeling off a too-tight coat,
or exhaling after holding your breath.
We spend lifetimes polishing our cracks,
hiding them under better lighting,
posing at just the right angle,
so no one sees the blur of our edges.
But the truth is, our imperfections—
the wobbly notes in our symphony,
the ink smudges on the page,
they are what make us human.
Imagine a world where no one pretends.
Where the cracks become confessionals,
and jagged edges fit seamlessly like puzzles.
Imagine the weight gone, shame silenced.
When I said, \"I’m flawed\" out loud,
the sky didn’t split apart,
nobody ran from the room screaming.
Someone even laughed and nodded.
Turns out, we are all broken mirrors,
reflecting light in all directions imperfectly.