On my table sits a fruit bowl pristine, perfect, peaceful. On its top lay golden nutrients and with every passing day no one pays it any mind. It’s only purpose being, to stay perfect. But of course, perfection is impossible and the ones who yearn it the most will meet their biggest demise. One day, one week, two months. It sits there in pristine perfection, but little do we know underneath the surface the illness of imperfection spreads.  People pass by as that pungent smell fills their noses, they smell it but never seem to check on the perfectly seeming bowl. Mold fills the core of that fruit bowl that used to sit so perfectly. It sits ignored wanting to be noticed silently screaming out but its shrieks stay ever so quiet. Overnight imperfection had taken over and all that was left was an unlovable, imperfect, mess of a bowl. Everyone wonders how overnight the imperfects spread too quickly, but little did they know it was hurting for so much longer. Its screams stayed ignored for too long, and it was thrown away to be forever forgotten and to sit in its sorrow till the end of time.