When we farmed and things failed,
It tore me up.
I knew I carried my need to be perfect,
But finally decided the life-and-death
Stakes in farming were not my favorite,
And I quit.
It’s not like I had nothing else to do.
The thing is, I can look practically perfect
For a good while to friends.
But eventually that façade fails.
And then I am not sure if I am yet likable.
I had thought I was managing the perfection,
But it looks like I just transferred it,
With all its pernicious self-immolation.
Let the tearing commence.
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