Teen Poetry Contest

When Perfection Hurts

Every stroke of my pen is a battle,
every word a test,
and if it isn’t perfect,
It is nothing at all.

Every erased line is a scar,
every backspace a heartbeat skipped,
every revision a quiet prayer
that maybe this time,
this time,
I will be enough.

I hold my breath as ink stains the page,
because if I exhale too soon,
I might see the flaws,
the uneven letters.

People say, just let go,
but they don’t understand—
perfection is not a choice,
it’s the weight in my chest,
the whisper in my ear,
the shadow at my back
that never stops watching.

It lurks in the pause before I speak,
in the silence after I do,
waiting for the moment I slip,
waiting for proof
that I was never good enough to begin with.

It is the voice that echoes in the empty spaces,
the judge constantly in my mind,
the critic curled beneath my skin,
counting every misstep,
every flaw,
every moment I wasn’t enough.

It starts small—
a ripple in my lungs,
a closing around my ribs.
One mistake, one flaw, one tiny crack,
and suddenly,
I. can’t. breathe.

I try to, but the air won’t come.

The noise in the room starts to fade,

My heartbeat stumbles,
trips over itself,
racing to catch up with thoughts
that won’t slow down.

What if I fail?
What if they see?
What if everything I‘ve built
crumbles beneath me?

The walls are closing in,
the floor is slipping out from underneath me,
and I am trapped
in a body that refuses to listen,
in a mind that refuses to rest.

I try to steady the shaking,
but my mind is an avalanche,
a hurricane,
a voice screaming you will never be good enough
so loud I forget how to inhale.

Dizzy.
Lightheaded.
Vision tunneling.
Fingers tingling,
throat tightening,
lungs shrinking,
seconds stretching.
And yet—
somewhere in the chaos,
I know what they’ll say.

“You’re overreacting.”
“It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

But they don’t understand.
Because if it’s not perfect,
then what is it?
What am I?

Who am I
without the endless fixing,
the constant refining,
the desperate chase
for something I will never catch?

Without the deadlines,
the expectations,
the standards that keep me upright,
who would I be?

I do not know how to exist
without the weight,
without the pressure,
without the expectations I have for myself.

So I gasp and I push and I force myself up,

polish the cracks,
smooth the edges,
pretend I wasn’t just drowning
in my own expectations.

Because there is no time to fall apart.
No room to fail.
No permission to be unfinished.
I’m always perfecting something no one will ever see,
because it is always,
almost, but never quite finished.

But what if?
What if it’s okay,
To have flaws, to never be perfect,
I don’t always need to have this many expectations.

I have been stuck in this cycle that never ends,
But what if?
What if perfection can finally become a friend.