Perfect

By Amaya Esparza

It’s funny

  how you only

      love me when

I’m perfect.

            Perfect like

the fabricated

version of me

in your head,

who is more

sympathetic

to your feelings,

to your traumas,

to your issues

than my own;

who is more

understanding

of your emotions,

of your breakdowns,

of your hardships

than my own.

Perfect like

pretending that 

I don’t matter,

because how

can I when only

you’re allowed

to have feelings,

to have traumas,

to have issues,

to have emotions,

to have breakdowns,

to have hardships?

It’s funny

        how I only

  love me when

I’m not perfect.

By Amaya Esparza