I am a perfectionist.
I haven't noticed before,
that I crave for perfection,
to wait behind every door.
Hidden from glances,
protected between stares,
my longing is not apparent,
unseen by judging glares.
My dirty gross secret
is covered with my eyes,
used to portray false feelings.
But it leaks out through my lies.
My actions don't show me aiming for perfection,
but I am, just striving for my own conception.
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