Forgetting Me

I’m looking at other people and wondering why I’m not like them. Why my brain seems to be the only one wired differently. The only one that doesn’t seem to do its job right. I’m looking at their mechanics and realizing that perhaps I’m not like them. That I was simply not meant to be like them, all glorious and beautiful. I’m looking at my messily done stitches and the random pieces of fabrics I’m built out of. And I glance at their silk arms and legs. I look at their neatly aligned stitches and long for their perfection.

But while I was looking at their perfect silk joints and working brains and hearts, I forgot to look at myself for who I am. Not for them. I forgot about the soft clicking of my heart and funny tunes my brain creates. I forgot the beauty of my flaws and mistakes. I forgot that while they all look the same, they lack the originality I have. I forgot that, unlike them, I came out of something special and homemade rather than a factory. I was made from love. Perhaps it wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. It was more than enough. Better than being factory-made, I guess.