I have an imperfection.
It is an unspoken belief- don’t ask, don’t tell. Outside, they can be covered in clothing. Inside, I look into the mirror. Bare. Uncovered. Unclothed. Naked.And, despite having a physically capable body, somehow I also have at least one imperfection.
(In fact) I have many.
I have a scar on my chin from a childhood spent on ice. I have holes punctured into my teeth from processed sugars. I have a toenail that never grew in properly after years of stumbling through the dark with it as my guide. I have uneven tanlines from years of stomping out in shorts during the summer months, wearing bracelets and anklets and tie dyed t-shirts.
I carry imperfection.
It is in my posture, the slouch I have perfected as a craft from decades of wearing my own body. It is in my gait, which leans heavily on my heels. It is in my feet, with my right one often dragging slightly behind my left due to self-inflicted pains. When I’m anxious, the skin on my foot is peeled, revealing the tender red beneath the epidermis, the layer that blooms upon contact with air. I wear it all.
I am imperfection.
It is every year of my life because there is no “perfection” to living. Because there is no way to exist that creates an unmarred body, an unscarred person. Because I am the amalgamation of these experiences that created these imperfect pieces, and, as they say, you are what you do. If the results are imperfect, then, by default, so am I.
Yet, as I age, as these imperfect pieces accrue, I move on. Write a statement on a piece of paper- “I love myself.” Swallow it whole, feel the ink bleed into my body, the self love penetrating my own core.
I am imperfect and I am fine.