Crooked Smile



I have a crooked smile.

When I'm really happy, it is totally askew.  My mouth and face seem to occupy different space-time continuums.  Noticing this is the dark part of my brain reminding me that even in happiness, I should find fault.

The light part of my brain recounts a thousand images of happiness of those I love.  The memories are always slightly askew.  One eye half-closed.  A mouth stretched in laughter.  A shirt covered in stains.  Strands of hair going every which way.  Happiness is rarely well put together.

Meanwhile, I battle for perfection.  It is a foolish pursuit of an ungodly creature.  The quest is rigged, ready to flay you with failure at every turn.  But I take my penance with pride.  I swell up with self-satisfaction that I have suffered more than most.  When I go home, alone, I look into the mirror and shrink under the weight of imperfection.

My face, you see, it isn't great.  My nose is too big.  The wrinkles are building around mouth.  I have to look closer to see the blue in my eyes.  There is no perfection here.  Just a crooked smile.

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