Imperfect

She stood long in front of a stained imperfect mirror in a freezing bathroom. Her hair pulling up into an imperfect bun, with imperfect strands escaping out of the hairband. She was trying to remove the overly done imperfect make-up from her acne-ridden imperfect face, thinking of all the photos where her imperfect belly pouch were visible which even the blackness of her dress couldn't hide. Such an imperfect dress, unable to perform its solitary function of hiding the imperfection proportions of her body. She looked back into the evening, and remember that one moment of perfection. She had been successful in conjuring the perfect imitation of a smile when someone had comment on her stunted imperfect dancing skills. She had tried so hard to forget all her imperfections throughout the evening, wanted to have a good time. But even before she had decked up to go out, she had realized how imperfect she was, how inadequate, and found herself questioning her imperfect decision of ever thinking she would be a part of this world of perfect people.

She had thought maybe she would evolve from a bookworm to a social butterfly. Maybe stop feeling sorry and learn to appreciate herself. Maybe even have a couple of friends who didn't emphasize her imperfections. Such imperfect thoughts. Trust her imperfect heart to overlook all the facts and past evidences and hope for impossibilities.
Apparently she had learnt nothing from her past imperfect relations. The imperfect anticipation of being more than a friend for someone, when people who she thought were her close friends didn't even remember her birthday, and she forgave them because she knew they wouldn't care even if she stayed mad. So she pretended to be perfectly fine when in fact, it was killing her inside.
She remembered all the verbal abuse that had shaped her into her present imperfect self, and how it would probably remain her shadow for life.

And in that dingy imperfect bathroom, with her scarred and flabby imperfect body chilled to the bones, and silent tears clouding her imperfect eyes, she took an imperfect vow to return to the shell. Because she realized it wasn't a cocoon, and she wasn't a caterpillar to be metamorphosed into a pretty butterfly. She was a snail, slow and ugly, and would be unable to survive without the shell, not that she claimed that the imperfect shell would provide much protection against something even as feeble as a 5-year old's feet.