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Perfection

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Perfection. Something I loved. Something I obsessed about. Sadly, I would never achieve it. Even as a child, I obssessed about perfection. If I had messed up on a drawing, I would reset. I felt as if- if it was imperfect, there was no meaning. Perfection, purity, it must have been achieved. I would do anything for perfection, I swear, I would even kill a man.

Hey, you know, no one is perfect.

Yet, I tell myself, I will make everything perfect, everything needs to be right.

I would panic if someone was to insult, or criticize me. As if they were perfect.

This lead to problems, many immoral things, and I knew I was sorry. I knew I was imperfect.

Just maybe, if I was to make everything else perfect, I would become perfect. I would have a reason to justify the things I have done, the people I have killed, because everything was perfect.

Isn't that what society wants? Perfection?

Just, why don't let me achieve the goal?

Why have they put me in this jail, hide me, isolate me?

Truly they are imperfect, they are worth nothing.

Just like me.

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