I sharpened a whole box of pencils just because I wanted to.
I like the smell of pencils.
I like the little rippled shavings.
I like the perfectly pointy tips.

But after I sharpened 24 pencils I wondered why.
I never, ever use them.

I type.
I like the clickity-click of the keyboard,
The sound of my nails brushing the keys.
I love how fast the words spill forth
(and yet they still can’t keep up with my mind).

But you know what I like most?
Deleting.
When I write with a pencil
(or heavens-to-betsy a pen!)
and I make a mistake?
You see it.
You can see the scribble-through,
The shadows of letters gone awry,
The dust of words now wiped away.

I know I’m not a perfect writer,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I type it up all neat and pretty
With (hopefully) no mistakes.

I know I’m not a perfect mother,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I dress my kids neat and pretty
With (hopefully) no snotty noses or dirty hair.

I know I’m not a perfect woman,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I put on make up and fix my hair
With (hopefully) no dandruff showing.

I know I’m not a perfect person,
But I want you to think I am.
And so I get up each morning and put on my mask
And (hopefully) you can’t see the real me.
Actually…
I hope you do see through it all.
And actually…
I hope you see that I’m not perfect.
I never will be.
And hopefully you’re ok with that.
Because I’m still learning to be ok with it myself.
(And not worry about what you think.)
(Hopefully.)

Originally posted September 21 of last year.