I’m not good at making mistakes, I usually say.
Actually, I am good at that. In fact, I’m great at it. What I mean to say is, I hate making them.
When I make a mistake, I really mess it up. I don’t just make little ones that can be overlooked, or can easily be fixed. I make big ripple-in-the-lake mistakes. Like a kid with a box of crayons staring at a freshly painted wall, my mistakes are bold; you can’t miss them. They don’t just affect me, but others around me, and sometimes people I don’t even know. It’s possible I’ve affected my neighbor’s aunt’s coworker with my mistakes.

I pour salt on the wound; I dump gas on the fire.
Let it burn!
Feel the heat.
Now I feel it, but it’s not burning on the surface.
It singes deep inside, to the core of my heart.
The pain of the unchangeable, more stubborn than any other pain, takes residence inside me and refuses to leave.
The big question lingers: What have I done?
I don’t feel like a rebel. I feel like a failure.
Now I’m the child again; this time crying. The wall is covered in colors and I know it won’t be okay.

How do you make it better? you might ask.
Well, sometimes you don’t.
You’re not forgiven, the feeling doesn’t go away, you still wish you could change it, and “I’m sorry” just isn’t enough.

Instead, I invite the feeling in and ask it to stay. I live with uncomfortable. I make more mistakes, again and again. Because as someone wise reminded me, without imperfections, we’re not human.

Thank you mistakes, for letting me stay true to my imperfect, human self.

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