I scratched the question into the back of my head
 How hard can it be to reach perfection?
And the answer rang out as my hopeless screams in an empty field 
It pounced on me, sank its teeth into my neck as my sister's voice of concern
My body knew long before I did that it wasn't made of paper
And I couldn't fold away the ugly edges or tear away the mistakes.
I spent all that time burning away my imperfections
Before realizing they made up the entire thing. 
And then the question changed:
How far will I go to be perfect?
Which parts of me would I kill just to detest their replacements?
What would I sacrifice to become someone who couldn't exist?
And the answer broke my ribs as the weight of sleeplessness,
Pierced through my center as a pervading hunger,
And constricted all my limbs
And at some point I realized the rat race would kill me
But I couldn't decide if that mattered at all
So the newest question burrowed its way into my head:
Could I live if I wasn't perfect? 

And I still don't know the answer.
I just don't have the answer