On the Pursuit of Perfection

Growing up, it was frustrating

to be chasing,

hoping, wanting, waiting

for perfection, unattainable.

Too many scars

on my face, my body,

my arms -

remnants of growing,

older, and

hating them for showing.

I was always too big;

not large but not thin.

It stung

that I was never the pretty one,

and I thought

someday I will be what I

want.

I will be remade in the image of

God.

I think when I die,

bones in the ground

myself in the sky,

I will cry, I will plead:

just let me stay me.

Let me keep a token

of joy, of sorrow,

keep my skin that was broken.

Maybe I’ll ask you to heal it

tomorrow,

but for now, let me stay

with a scar born from love

that I hope to you doesn’t

fade,

because he was

a dog

who loved me with his whole

being,

his fur, his paws, and his teeth.

Surely it is not too much

to ask

that I maintain

the puckered pink in the palm

of my hand,

the remnant of a bloody kiss,

an imperfection I would

miss.

When perfection is attainable,

please, if you’re

able,

the life of a God is nothing without

my dog

and the love from his mouth.