I've always felt at fault for being that way, thinking it was a sin, that I was committing a horrible crime by not being perfect. I guess that's what led me to become a perfectionist, or at least try to be one with a passion that drove me insane on the inside.
I stood tall, I held my chin up and walked like a Queen. I hid behind a mask that wasn't cracked, not even at the slightest. Everything was just right about me - not one scar, not one little thing to be ashamed of.
But we all make mistakes. I've made mine.
- I can be selfish - amazingly so that I don't think any amount of good deeds will compensate for it.
- I can weave a very believable yarn when I want to. Lies pretty much wait to be released at the tip of my tongue.
- I'm utterly self-centered, sometimes wanting the world to revolve only around me. A bit of an attention-seeker when I should really be focusing on the needs of someone else who actually matters.
- I'm not beautiful. Yet I pretend to be.
I could go on and on and on about it.
But to keep it simple and sweet: I'm an imperfect perfectionist deluding myself with truths that will never come to be.
I'll always be flawed but there will come a time when I'll have to look past the flaws and embrace myself for what I really am: human.