As A Black Grown Man, I Hate Perfection Too

I hate perfection,
I detest the way it tastes,
And the annoying fact that it doesn’t even have a face, just a voice that sounds like everyone else’s, and a frail body glamorously dressed in guilt and embellished with shame.

I hate perfection.
The way it makes effort feel like suffering,
And progression feel like crucifixion.
The way it paints God as flawless,
But hides that it made the devil, like humans, in its image and likeness.

I hate perfection.
The way it makes muddy hands look like dirt,
And tired legs feel lazy.
The way it makes “I am trying” look like the synonym for “I am lost,”
And ‘I have no idea’ feel like the synonym of ‘I am worthless.’

I hate perfection.
And the illusion it serves the mind,
That makes it see rest as idleness, and every ‘I tried’ sound like ‘I was not enough.’
The way it makes fragments feel like broken pieces,
Even though it takes broken pieces to make anything feel whole.

I hate perfection,
And how it makes desire feel needy,
And open palms look like a haven for leftovers.
The way it adorns life and paints death dark,
Even though all that was made, death gave it the essence it holds.

I know it is absurd for the soul to say it hates everything about the thing it hates,
For even hated things bear within them something to love that vengefulness clouds.
But when perfection has made me hate my eyes
Due to its imperfections,
How will I see the thing to love,
When I hate the eyes I am staring through?

So yeah, I hate perfection,
Or maybe I don’t.
For the idea of perfection is just a thought birthed illusion.
Therefore, it’s not perfection I hate, for I can’t hate that which doesn’t even exist.
I guess I just hate my mind for thinking perfection is real, hence the reason I hate it.

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