Perfect

How perfect is imperfection?

Complete, some might say. Perfect maybe.
Barbie perfect, no. But perfect all
the same. She wondered
how deeply she wore her sorrow.
Could they see her imprisonment,
alas as caged as the parakeet
she kept.

She wondered
who might ever see inside…
see inside her murky mess.
She wondered, who might give
a second look. She wonders...
then decides, no…never perfect.

Soft, coffee, puppy eyes
fall upon the pages of her book.
Her sandy hair flows, covering
half of her right brow, blissfully
unaware of her cozy aura.
Legs crossed and back curled in
perfect innocence, thoughts of
only words read, swirling through her mind.

Loud scuffles shatter the silence,
but interrupting for only the briefest of
seconds. Her arms retreat inwards, curling
her book closer to her chest,
protecting each other, almost
of necessity.

Legs crossed, completely oblivious,
her knees nuzzle tight against each other.
Wearing sunny yellow flip flops,
even her toes curl in perfect form,
showcasing her perfect nails,
painted a perfect midnight.