I am perfect.

I am perfect. Does this make me somehow egotistical? Yes, to some. I am a perfect combination of who I was, who I am and who I will one day become. I am so perfectly chaotic that I organise my chaos in alphabetical order, sometimes. Other times I like the perfect symmetry of size order this allows sequels and prequels equal opportunities to spread their wings amongst a diverse choice of wonder. I am perfect. And I do not need another to value my place within society for I have eyes of my own, perfect eyes, pools of topaz that hypnotically sedate their prey before I spin them into a silken web. If I choose to. But I seldom do for I am perfect and games of place value offer me no entertainment. I do not compete with tantalising tassels of wondrous hair or killer eyes or skin of silken lust, I do not compete with cleavage shots…because I would win that,  and perfectly placed accessories to lead the simple minded testosterone to their slaughter, tongues hanging from their mouths. I have no need, I am perfect and need no assurance on my perfection. I am so incredibly, imperfectly perfect that I bring new meaning to the inability to perform. I am the peacock without my glorious tail feathers to appease my captive audience. I am so perfect I am left with only the choice to dance to an entirely chaotic beat of my own to lyrics that have no home and to music that skips chaotically through the melodies of my mind, whilst all the while stopping to smell flowers, to lose myself in emerald skies and rename a universe of stars. I am perfect. For I do not compete to place value upon myself by stripping away the value of another. We are perfect. The unanimous creation of a undiscovered universe, unique fixtures self embodied by the essence of life. We are perfect in our very forms, in our every moment. I am perfect. You are perfect, but please bide me no time for what right do I have to speak of your perfection, what right does anyone have? I am perfect. We are perfect.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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