Almost perfect

It’s been 2 months since you learnt how to unfold yourself, to spread out the occasional creases and regular stains, and not be afraid to have someone look.
It felt like allowing your bowels to talk loose in your neighbour’s house; although it was unfamiliar and needed some getting used to, you were relieved.
You’re not used to the pain of holding it in but you haven’t known what else is safe anymore in months.
You wear your pain like a too tight shirt. Some days, you want to run away from your body and return on public holidays. Some days you have so much confidence you could be a bookshelf, eager to receive all of the world’s knowledge.
Most days, you’re so drained you’re not very different from an unpublished writer’s unfinished manuscript.
Your body is unlearning how to love and learning to fold itself back in, because it’s not sure anybody wants to see her stains. You’re building a thousand emotional forts inside your tiny body, but the world can only see an almost perfect smile.


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