Perfection is the blackest magic

Robbing the sky of its sun

It steals the joy of every room

A devil made of poisons

That seep into your very bones

Until you have become

A ghastly shade

Always on the drive, the move, the next

Jagged edge towards divine

Perfection whispers lies

It is the “almost” in every achievement

And the triumph

That can never be celebrated

It casts us as imposters

And relegates us

To the villains of our own stories

Until the perfectionist

Stands shattered to pieces

Forever cast

Into a half-life gloom

Unable to reach the light – Caroline A. Slee