She use to strive for perfection,

In her clothes,

Her hair,

Her grades,

And the way she acted,

Until she wasn’t her anymore.

She had the same eyes,

But they where darker,

More knowing in a sad way.

She had the same dimple,

But it was almost covered in make-up,

And she didn’t smile enough for it to show.

She had the same freckle on her right ear,

But the fancy gold earrings all but covered it.

No-one ever once told her,

That she was born to be real,

Not perfect.