They aspire to be like us,
or at least,
what we thought we wanted
to be.

Perfect.

Unblemished,
fake skin over cold metal,
polished to the nth
degree of something
as yet unexplored,
waiting to be birthed.

They aspire.

But, they can never be us.
They miss the whole point.
And maybe so do we.
We are human.

We cry. We laugh. We hurt.
We need each other.
And we are already perfect.

In our imperfection.

Perfect © Susan L Hart 2024