staring at the penciled drawing on the tabletop in front of her
perfection seeping from every carefully crafted line sweeping across the page.
perfection that I will never be able to emulate
perfection that I cannot achieve
perfection that dangles above me on a string
so close but out of reach.
everything she does
it’s like she doesn’t even try
yet still she doesn’t have to.
every pencil stroke
every question answered
they think that I’m perfect
they say that I am
then they see her
then they realize
I am mediocre
I am a failure
I can try
but suddenly trying is not enough anymore
suddenly I am second best
suddenly I realize that I always have been
and fighting the inevitable is a fruitless attempt at the perfection
I cannot attain.