imperfect

Everyone lies.
No one can keep a secret even though we all have them.
No one wins in this game,
and anyone that thinks they've come close is blind.
No one is perfect, we are all flawed, ugly people.
The trick is to try to be as good as possible while you're here.
Not in order to win some prize or promise of heaven,
but to make your time here as liveable as possible.
Not only for yourself, but the people that have to deal with you every day.

"love everyone, trust a few, do harm to none" -william shakespeare

we all lose something. some part of ourselves to the universe.

it cuts you into pieces, takes a few, and you sit and try to glue them back together.
you try to fill in the holes, present yourself as complete.
it eats away at you and you try to hold onto what's left.
when it takes a break from trying to kill you, to consume you whole,
you breathe.
you celebrate.
you smile.
then it comes back for more.
it scrapes out your insides.
it drains you dry.
it cuts open your veins and sucks up every drop.
and when you lay on the floor, empty and alone,
it's a relief.
it's a relief to be a shell, a deflated balloon,
because at least it's over.

so you build back up.
you heal,
you do your best to forget it all.
you smile more,
you laugh more,
you're happy.

and you never tell people about it because, well, no one wants to hear those kinds of stories.
even though we all have them.
even you.