What is perfection?

I know what women look like. This height and this weight. This bust and this nose. This hair and this gait.

I know what women look like and where they find their value. I sense it inside me, between the place

that screams, "You can be better than you are!" and that place that whispers, "Just give up".

I really only know what one woman looks like. Another height and another weight. Right now with a bruise

on her thigh where she hit the table, and a knick off her thumb from dancing up the stairs. And that scar

on her toe from a knobby-kneed six-year-old's barefooted adventure. The hair on her legs sticks up,

a thin dotting of tall grasses without color growing out of the cracked earth that is her shins. Her belly folds over

 about the same amount as her breasts, which peak out from her rib cage like elbows from a car window. 
She has a face that crinkles into a smile, tight with the tension of expecation that pulls from puppet strings 
somewhere between her ears. Her legs grow wider towards the top and begin to wrinkle

 like the gravity-defying trees in Thailand. And isn't this 
what women look like?