Once upon a time
There emerged a game
A game of perfection
A game of a charming HE
And a captive SHE!
HE said to her “ you’re perfect”
With her smooth, poker straight hair
And not so smooth skin
SHE was perfect to him.
With her thick book of poems and thin waist,
With her brittle nails and bad taste of music
SHE was perfect to him.
SHE never agreed being perfect.
With two whole different world of theirs
With fights over silly and not so silly stuff
For the years they had known each other
And for even more years yet to come,
SHE thought, together, THEY were perfect.
With his corny jokes and the comfort of his arms
For the way he looked at her, always searching,
Never finding what HE wanted
And finding something that HE didn’t know exist,
The way he sulked with his eyes narrowed
SHE, without even knowing, believed,
HE was perfect.
It was one perfect morning
When HE woke up and discovered her
Just beside him,
Oh! how imperfect she was!
HE knew it for sure
HE had known it for quite a while now,
SHE was damn imperfect.
How damn loud, grossly oblivious
And pathetically subversive SHE was!
HE felt sick
SHE was sickening!
So one perfect night
HE told her how imperfect
THEY were, together.
HE had his reasons
Thousands of them
SHE, being imperfect,
Had little idea this was coming.
SHE left with her thick book of poems
HE, burnt her old pictures with the new ones,
But kept mum about her imperfections.
Soon he went back to his perfect life
He missed her poker straight smooth hair
And not so smooth skin,
But SHE was too much to endure
SHE was absurdly imperfect.
The only perfect matter about THEM was
Now HE was sure about his idea of “perfection”
Perfect was whatever SHE wasn’t
Perfect was them drifting apart
Perfect was his idea of perfection.
SHE, being oblivious, didn’t know
Why it hurt so much
After all, he wasn’t perfect!
SHE, being subversive, hated the idea of being hurt
She thought she was above those petty feelings
She denied and never confessed,
But when HE said, “ you’re perfect”
SHE believed him.
Neat game it is-
The game of perfection.
Tonight you’re perfect and the next morning
You say, “You’re not perfect”
You swallow the very opposite idea
Like a four year old gulps down
Fish curry with rice.
If you’re ever told you’re perfect
You must know,
This game has trial and error basis
You’re a trial version, chum!
You don’t fit in, you sod off.
And like every trial version,
You’re there to make the list narrow
To make the list of do’s and don’ts “perfect”
You will never be the one
You will be “perfect” just for a glimpse!
Get your lazy ass out of the closet and run
Run for your life, run for the air, run for the piece of sky
Run like Caliban,
Run like the midnight’s children,
Run like Osman the schizophrenic,
Run like the Shepard boy who went to see the alchemist,
Just run away from the game of perfection.
This game is not for you,
You’ve got your innate errors due.