I can’t stand this.

I really ought to know better by now;

don’t build pedestals for people,

because only statues are as

smooth and cold and perfect

as you think they are.

Statues are static.

But people move in ways you don’t expect;

they slip and they fall off the pedestals

you built in your mind – nobody’s perfect –

and I fell into the trap I begged others not to set for me.

Perfection is a prison and I know that firsthand, but

perhaps it’s easier to look at things

not as they are,

but as you wish they were.