I’m not perfect. I’ve sought love outside of myself as if it could save me. Only my love can save me. I’m not perfect. I’ve sought external approval despite it coming and going like the tide. I’ve sought out instead of in. I’m not perfect. I’ve numbed myself with substance and food time and time again when I was terrified of what I felt. But that doesn’t fill the love-hole inside of me, only I can fill that, and that doesn’t protect me from life, nothing can. I’ve gotten wasted to run from the monsters but they only get bigger and they only get faster. And every time, I said it was “the last time.” But while I’m here, I want to open my heart and say “yes,” and “thank you,” and I want to be naked with the universe. I’m not perfect. I’ve gossiped, which is witch-hunting other women. And then I only hurt myself. They are me and I am them. When I hurt you I hurt me. So often we fear the mirror. I’m not perfect. I once had a spiritual ego. Thankfully Kali killed that, it was so painful and isolating. I don’t want to be on a shaky pedestal, I prefer the earth. I’m not perfect. I once didn’t understand there was no difference between a secret and a lie. Kali also showed me that. I learned that lesson so deep it branded me for life. I’m not perfect. I once had frenemies, friends with agenda, friends out of ego or fear. Now if you’re in my life I only want the highest for you. I’m not perfect. I can channel the divine but I’m so fucking human. This can be terribly confusing for myself and others. I’m not perfect. I’m a medicine woman who sometimes forgets to take her own medicine. This makes me sick. Then when I take my own medicine, I heal. I’m not perfect. I can give but have trouble receiving. I’m not perfect. I’ve said what I thought others wanted to hear and not what I truly felt. But that was only speaking the language of fear, a teacher taught me that. I’m not perfect. I’ve doubted myself and my path and love time and time again. The lesson won’t leave til you’ve learned it. Nothing changes until you accept it. I’m not perfect. When things are going too well I self-sabotage and want to run. I’m not perfect. There are days that I don’t get out of bed but tell others to rise. I’m not perfect. I have reached into the known of my past when I was too scared to live in the unknown of the present. That hurt like hell. I’m not perfect. I’ve wished for normalcy when I was too scared and tired of being different. You don’t fit in because you are spectacular. Spectacular, but not perfect. I’ve fought hard for equality then laid down for men who didn’t fight for it themselves. That also hurt like hell. No more sleeping with soul strangers. I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect at all. I’ve sought the love of people who didn’t love me and ignored the love of those who do. I’m not perfect. Sometimes I push others to speak their truth while I cower in the corner in fear. I’ve let what others think about me matter more than what I know to be true. I’m not perfect. I’ve placed my worth on my external looks and others’ worth as well. But the heart is all that matters. I know this, but I forget. Because I’m not perfect. I am terrible at confrontation, I shake and shrink and close my eyes and wish I could fall through a trap door. I’m not perfect. I have Money issues and Men issues and Mother issues. The three M’s. But I’m working on them. I’m not perfect. I tell you to speak your voice but even as I write this, I wonder who the fuck am I to write this, and I think of others saying “who the fuck does she think she is.” And they do, and they do, all the time. But still I rise. I’m not perfect. But still I write. Still I speak. I am you and you are me. My story is your story. And it’s not perfect.
I’m not perfect.
But I’m still a phenomenal woman.
I’m not perfect.
But my voice still counts and my voice still matters.
I’m not perfect.
Thank you Maya Angelou, Always & Forever.
Your words changed my life.
I’m not perfect, but still, for you and for me and for us for She,