perfection wrapped in
                flaws
she sees only the cracks
     in her interior,
sees the mess of her
        exterior, and she
hates
hates it all
she is blind to the beauty
    of her hopes, dreams,
        bright and wonderful
holding together the shattered pieces
of her humanity.
she is deaf to the music
     of her laughter, the sun
in her voice, the glow that radiates
from her ideas, her fixations, her idealizations
she sees the flaws, the cracks,
          the destruction that life has
riddled across her skin and soul.
she sees each mark, each dent,
    as verification of her failures,
cracks in her concept of her best self,
but i,
i see her, see the damage as the
        grips of reality,
see the shine of her soul through her
     splintered fragments,
and to me, the world,
she is the most imperfect
                 perfection.
from the prompt: "Write a short story that starts with this sentence.
"You wouldn't like my home town.""
excerpt:Â
They all file into pews and sit, listening to the old preacher guide our souls toward salvation. After mass, they take the time to mingle. First person doesn’t normally leave the church for a good three hours after we’ve been let go. Sunday, they’ll tell you, is God’s day of rest, and if He rested, they’re sure as well going to take the time to do it as well.
You wouldn't like my hometown. The people are nice enough, mind. Some might call them peculiar, lacking a better word. They all have their set ways of doing things, and they’d rather you not get in the way of that. Everyone knows Mrs. Johnson sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house at 7:35 each and every morning, and if you don’t want a proper dusting, you’d best not plan on strolling by her home at that time. Mr. Timms always stands for three and a half minutes in the grocers with the door open to the frozen ice cream. He never buys anything from there, but he always looks. Everyone attends church, though I don’t know if they’re all believers. Every one shows up for the Sunday service dressed in their pressed pants and ironed shirts, or knee-length dresses. They all file into pews and sit, listening to the old preacher guide our souls toward salvation. After mass, they take the time to mingle. First person doesn’t normally leave the church for a good three hours after we’ve been let go. Sunday, they’ll tell you, is God’s day of rest, and if He rested, they’re sure as well going to take the time to do it as well. The preacher never joins the congregation. He always goes out and sits on the porch swing at the library, right across the road from the little church. He’ll spend his day swinging back and forth on the rusted, squeaky thing, contemplating life, perhaps praying. I never asked what he did, he never says. People’s business isn’t mine.
 Thinking of the library, I guess it’s one’ve the buildings that’re pretty run down. I don’t mean unusable, ‘course, but it’s not pristine. Could use a few new layers of paint one of these days, and its shingles had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t the only house in the town like this. For a year there’d been a petition going on about the repairs needing to happen on a number of the main buildings in the town – the courthouse could use some work, along with the grocer, the police station, the hardware store – just to name a few. The council have all agreed more than once that the work needs to be done. Being honest, seems most people have just been looking for something to complain about. The buildings aren’t a danger to anyone, not yet. Pretty sure most would be upset to see them fixed up. They’d have to take a look for something new to start being upset over. Gives them things to talk about when all of them are congregated at church.
 Place like this is often pretty quiet. Biggest event we’ve ever had was when the president passed by a town twenty minutes away. Had a few people get lost, end up here. We don’t have visitors all that often, so people made a bit of a fuss. Got all gussied up. There was an expectation to talk to place up. The small group of stragglers was hustled into a diner where they were served sundaes and hamburgers (at a pretty discount), and told to come back again. Never did, not that I know of at least. City folk probably don’t think they’re missing much. We may not have the hustle and bustle, but that doesn’t mean we’re worth forgetting. May not be perfect, but I’d say we’re doing pretty all right. You wouldn’t like my hometown, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
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