Imperfect and Enough
Every night the memories come flooding back;
I feel the deep cut of an old wound.
Well, it’s really not that old,
it was only just last year.
The last person I fell in love with I was too good for.
I knew it ever since our first fight.
Oftentimes I wondered,
does he even have a moral compass?
But this one seems too good for me.
Smart, funny, respectful, thoughtful.
How could I even begin to match him?
I shake my head, so disappointed in myself.
“You are enough,” I whisper softly.
Then I say it again, just as softly.
And I keep repeating it until I am reassured
Or until I’ve cried myself to sleep.
The next night comes and the shame is right on cue.
I tell myself to stop these destructive thoughts right away.
Then I bully myself into feeling like the most
inadequate human on the planet.
Time passes and I lie awake
Anxiety a soaring eagle, thoughts a sounding whale.
In a final desperate attempt,
I open my journal and begin to write.
See, they tell me not to write about love
Because that’s what everyone does.
I do it anyway, because my poetry is for me.
They tell me to edit my work
To keep a consistent structure
To paint the world black and white
To show my life as success or failure.
But I don’t because that’s not my truth.
It’s probably not yours either.
I write to paint my life,
unorganized and unrefined.
I write to develop myself,
untraditional and unapologetic.
If you liked this poem, please be sure you check out Accepted.
