after dinner,
I think that maybe
the first time I saw a perfectionist
was when my stepdad
pulled fast at plastic wrap,
until no creases showed
above a bowl of diced tomatoes.
Now I wonder
what kind of life I have been storing,
tugging this way and that
without stopping?
I am not a bowl of diced tomatoes,
but still, I need
to free myself of this suffocation,
this self-applied plastic.
Otherwise, I’ll sit
and keep forever,
too perfect to live.
The Opportunistic Poet 