Perfectionist Poem by Leslie Ching

In a bitter chiselling winter gust,
Dusty flecks of snow whirl about in the air around me,
Enveloping my figure in a spiral of white,
While I wait impatiently for my bus to appear on the horizon.

Bored and chilled to the bone,
I scrape up a rough pile of greyed snow,
Delicately shape it with my clunky boots,
Smoothly rounding out the sides into a fat cylinder, and
Gently patting down on soft surface until it’s nice and flat.

Perfect.

Still there is a tiny chink at the edge where loose snow chipped off.
Try as I might, I cannot block up the tedious gap.
It's almost perfect - just with one small flaw.
Just like me.

Me, the perfectionist, who likes, wants, needs everything to be absolutely perfect.
Me, the perfectionist, who will not, cannot, break this never-ending cycle.
Me, who, despite my perfectionism in my work, is not perfect in life.
Me, whose one rather large flaw is perfectionism itself -

Did someone craft me as did I the snow castle?
Did they try to perfect me as I tried to?
Were they satisfied with me,
Even with my many flaws?
And you?
Will you see me,
Know me,
Accept me?