She overtakes me slowly, but wholly.
None, not even I, hear her approach,
because she is remarkable,
and exactly who everyone prefers.

The Perfectionista has mastered life like science,
and holds me under so I cannot revert it to art.
She doesn’t mean to tyrannize me;
she assumes consciousness when I am lost.

Truthfully, I recreate my monstrous superior time and again,
devouring my Jar of Shoulds, ceding desire,
sidestepping paths I want—and therefore fear—to pursue,
choosing, rather than realized self, the ideal standard.

It takes catastrophe to surface me.
When I see her, I hesitate to return,
because she is magnificent,
and exactly what everyone needs.

Outsiders’ reflections cue recognition,
noting peculiar virtues, successes.
She doesn’t mean to lobotomize me;
she champions defense when I am threatened.

Shamefully, I allow her to conquer me as well,
gulping my Bottle of Don’ts, relinquishing control,
feigning my way into best-loved automation,
escaping hardest truths through easiest scripts.

“Perfect” is not, has not been, and could never be a compliment.
If anyone sees it, be afraid,
not envious, nor intimidated, nor especially, proud.
And please help me.
help me kill her so I can live