imperfect

they always said, in so many different ways,

that I scare them, digging into their fears

with my dark eyes.

that I am too demanding,

a dreamer, a runner, a fighter.

a fucker.

that I am too small or too far away.

that my hair is too short,

or my long curls and my midline

don’t make me Madonna.

that I am too quiet and slow.

they never wanted me from the start,

but after all those ends,

they keep see me in their minds:

a ghost from past.

they always said I am not too pretty

or too smart.

they said I am stuborn and dumb

they said I am selfish, unconsciousness or gelous

for no reason.

they asked me how I feel, sometimes,

not waiting for my answer.

they kept me for a while for themselves,

in the way we all keep ordinary things on our desks.

they got annoyed of my voice.

they never understood my choises.

they didn’t like me because I was a town girl,

a south east country side girl , a romanian one,

an east european, a christian,

unmarried, without a big purpose in life,

with no specific financial and professional plan,

they rejected me for missing bachelor’ s degree,

for being too old or too young.

for not being hungarian.

for having no money or rich family,

for moving from town to town,

for not wearing modern clothes,

for not answering at their phone calls.

they told me I would look better as a blonde,

with bigger brests and red long nails,

in skirts, dresses, on heels.

they never understood my writings,

my losts, my thoughts, my words,

my swords, my shelters, my hidings,

my red lips, my glass of wine,

my drawings, my touches, my tears,

my laughs, my screams, my cigarettes.

so I wonder how comes that I am so fine

for you, even without green eyes?

how am I not imperfect, as I have learned that
I am?