Her

staring at the penciled drawing on the tabletop in front of her

perfection seeping from every carefully crafted line sweeping across the page.

perfection that I will never be able to emulate

perfection that I cannot achieve

perfection that dangles above me on a string

so close but out of reach.

everything she does

comes easily

it’s like she doesn’t even try

yet still she doesn’t have to.

every pencil stroke

perfection

every question answered

perfection

then

there’s

me.

they think that I’m perfect

they say that I am

then they see her

then they realize

I am mediocre

in comparison

I am a failure

in comparison

I can try

but suddenly trying is not enough anymore

suddenly I am second best

suddenly I realize that I always have been

and fighting the inevitable is a fruitless attempt at the perfection

I cannot attain.