My seatmate once asked why I kept striving for perfection in my work.

I replied that I was afraid of failing.

She asked what it was about failing that frightened me.

Was it my parents?

I said no.

Was it my relatives?

Not either.

Was it myself?

Somewhat.

However, my constant aim for perfection

Was my form of acceptance

That I was never going to be the favorite person,

That loneliness was going to be my norm,

That pretending to be everything I was not was going to be

My modus operandi.

After all, they said that people needed to love themselves before they could receive love.

If nobody loved me,

Then aiming for perfection

Was my last attempt

For me to find a piece of myself I could love.

It was me

Always striving for the better,

But it was also me

Wishing somebody out there loved me sooner.

I wished somebody out there loved me sooner.