It’s funny what we think about when we think about god. We think about clouds and lightning bolts. About rivers splitting and the dead walking. We think about justice and order and beauty and wisdom and perfect and perfect and perfect.
That’s funny because she’s not looking for perfect. None of us are.
She’s driven perfect. For accolades and jealous stares. Then the feeling that she got something right (god would be proud). And then eventually white-knuckling perfect to the end of the highway, jumping out of her car at the last minute. Covered in dust, pulling hair from her face, watching it burn on the rocks below.
She wants someone who knows she farts in the bathtub, she drinks gin, she starts fires with no intention of putting them out. Someone who knows she’s as imperfect as the mountains, and they love every inch of her.