Sep 2018
I have always wanted to be perfect.
Once upon a time
it seemed like such an achievable goal
because I believed that perfection sat at the back of my throat
waiting each night for me to reach in and grab her after dinner.
But I soon realised
with scarred knuckles, yellow teeth, a scratchy voice and the same body I'd had all along
that perfection was not something I could achieve by cheating.
It was then that I started to see perfection sitting at the top of the hill 4 miles away from my house.
And in the black coffee I would cradle in my hands before I set off to that hill at 5am
And on the scale when I only had one foot on
And in the size 6 jeans I'd bought by accident, once
And in everybody else but me
I was dying to get my hands on perfection
But she just kept getting further away
Getting smaller each time I saw her.
But with a face as pale as daisy petals, numbers in the notes on my iPad, bruised knees and the blurriness behind my eyes,
I continued to chase what I thought was my only chance of being loved.
I chased her all the way to the approving messages, the smiles in the corridor by people who hadn't done that before and people's questions of just how I'd managed to get so healthy.
But I didn't stop there.
I chased her to the collar bones that caught raindrops, the spine that hurt against chairs, the gap between my thighs that seemed to stretch for miles and the defined cheekbones that cut into my once-so-plump cheeks.
I chased her to the clumps of hair on my pillow in the morning, to the cold shivers on a hot summer's day, to the baggy size 6 clothes and to the aches in my joints at night.
I chased her to the concerned faces and the offerings of other people's lunch. To the ground when I'd stood up too quickly and to the skipped periods.
And then to the hospital.
I chased her all the way to my death bed and yet still she did not come to visit me.
She was not with me when I looked down at my skeletal body.
And she was not with me when I caught a glimpse of myself in the patient bathroom mirror.
But she was with every other patient I came across, and she was with the nurse, and she was with every family and friend that came to tell me I hadn't needed to chase her that long because she did not exist.
Once upon a time
it seemed like such an achievable goal
because I believed that perfection sat at the back of my throat
waiting each night for me to reach in and grab her after dinner.
But I soon realised
with scarred knuckles, yellow teeth, a scratchy voice and the same body I'd had all along
that perfection was not something I could achieve by cheating.
It was then that I started to see perfection sitting at the top of the hill 4 miles away from my house.
And in the black coffee I would cradle in my hands before I set off to that hill at 5am
And on the scale when I only had one foot on
And in the size 6 jeans I'd bought by accident, once
And in everybody else but me
I was dying to get my hands on perfection
But she just kept getting further away
Getting smaller each time I saw her.
But with a face as pale as daisy petals, numbers in the notes on my iPad, bruised knees and the blurriness behind my eyes,
I continued to chase what I thought was my only chance of being loved.
I chased her all the way to the approving messages, the smiles in the corridor by people who hadn't done that before and people's questions of just how I'd managed to get so healthy.
But I didn't stop there.
I chased her to the collar bones that caught raindrops, the spine that hurt against chairs, the gap between my thighs that seemed to stretch for miles and the defined cheekbones that cut into my once-so-plump cheeks.
I chased her to the clumps of hair on my pillow in the morning, to the cold shivers on a hot summer's day, to the baggy size 6 clothes and to the aches in my joints at night.
I chased her to the concerned faces and the offerings of other people's lunch. To the ground when I'd stood up too quickly and to the skipped periods.
And then to the hospital.
I chased her all the way to my death bed and yet still she did not come to visit me.
She was not with me when I looked down at my skeletal body.
And she was not with me when I caught a glimpse of myself in the patient bathroom mirror.
But she was with every other patient I came across, and she was with the nurse, and she was with every family and friend that came to tell me I hadn't needed to chase her that long because she did not exist.
