The Perfect

I am a child of privilege, gentle and blessed,

By family and friends who give love at its best.

A sweet, quiet childhood, and now standing here,

I pursue higher education, a job, a career—

A luxury held out of reach for so many

Women back home who are not given any.

No burdens are placed on my shoulder or mind;

My world understands mental struggles in kind.

I balance my days between studies and prose,

With parties and hangouts where laughter still flows.

My work is appreciated, favorites in sight,

With freedom to choose and to live in the light.

To be as I wish, with a life made so whole—

I have a perfect life... yet a void in my soul.

They hand me applause, they admire the view,

They praise the achievement, the hard work I do.

I smile and say thank you, accepting the name,

While feeling like a ghost occupying the frame.

If I think I am minimizing someone else’s plight,

Does that make my feelings unearned in the night?

Is my heart invalid for hurting this way,

Though I still cannot name what my feelings would say?

If I put them to words, it’s the hours that creep,

Counting the stars while the world is asleep—

Though it sounds like romance, it is worry and dread

That keeps the thoughts spinning around in my head.

The clock moves forward, the seasons rotate,

While I stand frozen, arriving too late

To my own life, as the calendar turns,

Watching from far off while the daylight burns.

Laughter fills the room, but it muffles and fades,

Like sound passing through heavy, suffocating shades.

They speak, and I listen, and reply right on cue,

While hearing the static of a mind split in two.

It’s losing desire for foods I loved most,

Even cheesy fries with buffalo dip turn to ghost.

It’s staring in mirrors at someone unknown,

Yet having no desire to change what is shown.

It’s the stone in my neck and the pain in my chest,

The pulse in my wrist that refuses to rest.

The heavy eyes, weighted shoulders, head dragging the weight—

Kilograms of pressure I carry of late.

The simplest choices take hours to weigh,

Deciding to stand, or what outfit to wear today.

A thousand tiny decisions line up in a row,

Each pulling my spirit down into the low.

Going out feels like a chore I must face,

A duty I perform with a mask made of grace.

They say, "You’re not alone, just ask for support,"

But what help do I ask for when nothing falls short?

Because you see, No structure is broken, no crisis to see—

It isn't a storm, it’s just me being me.

A life built of blessings, complete and clear-eyed,

With every door open and warmth on my side.

Yet I stand at the center with nothing to give,

I may have a hundred reason not to die, but not one reason to live.