Perfect

Why can't I be perfect?
Why can't I get this right?
Am I not good at anything?
This is so stupid, easy, simple.
There are children better able to do this than me.
I miss another note in frustration, and the tears only add to the anger within.
Why can't I get this?
Why won't my fingers cooperate?
My left hand simply cannot fly any faster over the keys, and my right is such a blur that I start to add accidentals where there are none.
This is when I am at my lowest;
when I become disgustingly superficial.
I'm not pretty, I tell myself.
I am ugly and selfish and worthless but...
But if I could only complete this piece,
If I could do something, if I could be perfect for once,
Then I might have value.
These thoughts are cruel, and they embody something that I do not support.
I never think that about others – they are always beautiful to me. They are not me, so therefore they are perfect in every way; they have no inner voice telling them that they will never, ever be anything but....
Ugly.
Stupid.
Fat.
Selfish.
Worthless.
Alone.
And yet, the voice whispers, ever lying in my ear, perhaps if you could just get something right, then maybe....maybe you will have worth.
So I strive for perfection,
And when I miss, inevitably, I lose more than simply missing a note.
I lose to the voice within.