Perfect imperfect

While she's feeling utterly bliss,
there's always this feeling.
Mad,
You can say.

The feeling was born during her late first decade of life.
Those years when she's still wanting her dad to send her to school,
when she's still wanting her mom to tuck her in.

That feeling is like a stain,
rubbing on her face,
reminding her that she's not perfect.

Sometimes she wonder if she can just bury it to the ground
and stick a tombstone on it.

But she knows,
it's not possible.

Moving on and ameliorating is the only way out of her wretchedness.

Because she also knows that she has tons of hitch and glitch
and just a teeny-tiny slave to The Most Perfect.

A slave to The Most of Everything.