perfect
she saunters into the room with distinguished pride. her eyes are cold and penetrating and seemingly glazed with ice. she sits herself down onto the chair before her, and with a heavy sigh, she places her hands on her lap and awaits unnervingly the judgement that was to be placed upon her tiny shoulders. perhaps we should add more emphasis to those shoulders of hers. they were miniscule, weak and almost lackadaisical. it was probably only right to associate her shoulders with her present sentiments. her inner core was numb, numb with pride. and her spirits were languid and listless. there was nothing that could ignite the smallest sparkle within her soul. the people before her eyed her with curiousity, and with a certain fear. they asked her for her name, and she answers in a lacklustre tone. her voice is soft, nothing harsh could be detected from her tone and she seemed resigned to her fate. they ask her the next question, fearful as to what her reaction would be, but cautiously they approached her with the designated question and asked if she knew what she was here for.

her eyes widened as she scrutinised the people before her. she coughed twice, it was as if to ease her nerves. she raised her hand to stop the one person who came forward to her with a glass of water, and waved him away. she propped herself upright and unexpected to many, lashed out with grieving anger.

it's because i'm not perfect.

and then it was all clear to them. expectations and all, they had been too harsh in their judgements, they had been too flamboyant in their decisions, they had been too -- careless.