The imperfection of perfectionism

Perfection... you seem obsessed by it.
Is it really that much to you?
I guess it is, since little parts of you are dying for it.
Isn't perfection just a shadow, casted by those who are blind for reason and immune to satisfaction?
Are we born into this world to chase after a dream that we could never possibly reach?
You hold on so tight. Can't open up your hands and let it slip away, it's a part of you.

I hate perfection. I can't understand it. Perfection is emptiness.
Even though admiration is everything to me. That causes me to try my hardest at everything I do. But jealousy and loneliness would come with it, if all my writings and drawings, or my appearance, would be perfect. So, perfection isn't perfect. Perfection is the cold, empty shell that you're about to become.
I know it so well, because I envy you. You're already so beautiful, and yet you want to banish all your flaws from your beautiful being. Sometimes it makes me doubt myself, and I'm scared I'm not good enough to be with you. I'm scared that I myself will be a flaw to you, a little stain to your appearance, not big enough to whipe away.
It makes me shiver. It's cold outside of your perfectioned heart.

I've been where you are... I've felt what you feel... What do you expect of a girl with a face like mine? Especially with whole the world going crazy over their appearance and achievements.
But, I didn't like it. Do you?
Do you think you have control of yourself if you keep checking your weight? Would it make any difference if you'd just... accept the way you are?
Something to control, perhaps. I can't reach you, my words don't break through those thoughts of yours. You don't care what I think of you, you only see what is easy to see, something to feel, something to understand.
But anyway, I think you're perfect.

And I hate perfection.

~With love, Fifi