who is perfect?
no one.

what you see as tessellations are early morning utterances, jammed together in the way a college freshman hurriedly tries to synthesize. the deadline inches closer, minutes hooking themselves onto cheap fabric that fails to keep the restless warm. she thought it was just the next best thing, hanging with grace in the clearance aisle.

the clouds outside invite you to play, but you reach for your cheeks, look in the mirror, and murmur over your ruddy complexion. who will point in the other direction as you face your toes on the escalator? would they gasp, or even laugh in an instance of slight dismemberment?

“lightning crashes. an old mother dies.” no, not in a photoshoot out in some field. not right after she counted the bloodspots atop her thighs from breaking up a fight over which shade of red is pink. Correlation takes a shower. Causation brushes its crooked teeth. They’ve often lived within feet of each other. Roommates, not lovers.

once, your sister screamed at the sight of a full tub. she also got caught in an argument as a nurse gently told her that lukewarm baths that time of the month won’t dissolve her womanhood. for a while, she listened to only herself, submerging her feet in what felt best.

what is comfort?
your own pillow.

Cats No. 100 and 101 of the 500 Cats Project