I wanted to be the perfect person
I wanted to be the perfect mother
I wanted to be the perfect sister
I wanted to be the perfect friend
I wanted to be the perfect author
I wanted to be the best at all I did
But how can I be perfect, when I’m hanging my a thread?
How can I be perfect, when I can’t get out of bed?
I lay crumbled under covers, my mind racing like the wind
Every word I’ve ever spoken, analyzed and analyzed and overthought
How can I be perfect, when you didn’t do your part?
Being the perfect daughter, but mother dear, you’ve told me more than once I was your biggest regret
So I can’t be the perfect daughter
Being the perfect sister, but brother dear, you took away my innocence, so it pains me naught to have you disappear
Being the perfect friend was never hard; I loved you all and I am loved in return. Those that have found new friends, I’ll miss you all the same, but our season is over
And I’ll never be a perfect author because my words cannot resonate with all; I’ll settle for simply writing out these thoughts and giving my soul the overhaul
As for being a perfect person, I’m the most wonderfully perfect version of whoever I am today
So though my mania tells me lies
And my depression will linger by and by, my anxiety twists my mind, my PTSD robs my reality, I’ll rise triumphant in the end and there’s no shame in allowing my soul rest
Only then can I be my best