If she's not attaining the highest grades,
Nor feel like her body is adequate,

Then what is she?

Don't ask the voices in her head
As her thoughts are filled with poison and lead
Because they perceive
That if she can't achieve

She's better off never leaving her bed

I have an infection
I can't tolerate imperfection.

I've lived with it for so long,
But now I'm caught up in its throng

In elementary,
I cried when I got a B

In high school I took control,
And now I'm paying its toll.

Worrying, studying, crying,
As I feel the inside of me dying

Concerned about that extra mark
I ruminate on one percent in the dark

My self worth is tied to each grade,
97.5% and I am dismayed

This feeling's not right
Towards myself I feel spite,

I need to learn to be free
To reduce this anxiety

My thought patterns need to rearrange
With hard work and time I have no choice but to
change

I am not adequate
I'm never enough
For my own expectations
Which are incredibly tough

My imperfections and flaws
Are pointed out, for sure
Mental slave drivers don't pause
From their enduring hurt

Yet these expectations are invented by me
Nobody else says I'm not enough
From this mental state, I'd like to be free
I'm tired of this self-battering stuff

The demons are cackling
My self confidence is crackling

Weighing
     down
       my
         heart.

My disobedience they mock,
These imperfections are a shock.

As they shatter me apart.

Trying so hard to excel,
to be dropped in a well

What is any of this for?

To wallow in error,
Reignites the horrible terror.

Really, you should accomplish more.

They whisper negativity,
Prey on my insecurities,
Diminish my abilities,

A never ending cycle of not being good enough.
Not measuring up.

Perpetual exhaustion.
Perpetual dissatisfaction.
Perpetual degradation.

To fight this fight
To win this war
I must stay strong.
Let the positivity roar.

Today I was told.

I don't know who I am.

An absurd remark?

Perhaps.

Or a sad realization.

A slave to the grades.

"Do that for your resumé!"

Try harder, you must be the best.

Perfect, perfect.

From school to work to food consumption,

the slave driver in my head allows no interruption.

And what has this created?  What is this Frankenstein?

A girl involved in so much, yet without her own mind.

What are her passions?  What gives her real joy?

What's hidden behind that achievement ploy?

For now, there's no answer.

She's perfectionism's fine dancer.

Yet with some searching and fun,

The puppet show may finally be done.

My friend Ana has many followers.
She feeds us promises and fills our dreams
when we cannot, will not, sate the cries
of our bodies because those are easy to hush
during the din of day, but not in the void,
night when

my friend Ana comes through a glowing
screen in the form of thigh gaps, community forum posts,
and calorie counting apps where our intake dwindles,
anticipating the moment we take in the waist of  our skirts
so maybe that boy with the blue-jean eyes notices
our size 0 because on a scale of 1 to 10, we don’t fit.

My friend Ana remains forever in our minds,
teaching us to listen to our inner strength as muscle tone
ebbs, seething when we reach for some bread, but loving
the sweat-drenched skin as we run nowhere on a treadmill that we believe leads to a salvation as perfect as the symmetry of ribs—

of cheekbones that jut out from a thin and beautiful face
which smiles at muted murmurs and falls as I look
in the mirror at bodies shaped so divine, you might see
premature grace because
Ana never dies.

I've noticed that the our Fears can more or less be something simple, but it created into something complex and seemingly unimaginable to overcome. The reality is, we can overcome anything that our mind first started. We can retrace the steps, but we might not meet back where we started, because where we were is not where we are suppose to be. We have learned too much, seen to much, and have grown in ways that will not take us back to where we once were, even if that place was good, because chances are we attained new knowledge, therefor will be better than ever before.

My fears are valid. The feelings are real. The fear I have itself is just a manifestation of my ego, keeping me frozen in the rigid cycle of perfectionism, that which kills my creativity and inspiration, and breeds loneliness and isolation.

I could wait for change to come, but I'd rather be brave, and be the once to decide, in my time, the change I do wish to see.

Eyes cast down I see the flaws,
All of mine, all of yours.
Stains; I wipe away at them daily,
Guerrilla janitor,
They don't pay me
But they pain me.

So what if I strive for perfection?
mop or mope away,
squeeze out the infection,
but its a fiction
the clean slate don't exist
when you work in the permanent
they'll be no ExtINKtion.

So I guess I'll take the flaws,
All of mine, all of yours.
Clear some flaw space as
I take the floor
Make my acceptance speech
And explore
this imperfect notion.
Pry back the boards
and discover that
They keep us grounded and
In their absence
We wouldn't be who we are.