Vachon Imagined

She walks up to a carrot and says, Oh, that one’s imperfect.
Not the right color.
Not the right shape.

But what if she had never been taught what “right” looked like?

What if perfection was merely inheritance — an impression pressed upon her before she even knew her own name?

She carried her uncle’s flair and her mother’s control, two competing spirits living beneath the same skin, until somewhere along the way one became preferable to the other. Then preference evolved into doctrine, and doctrine softened itself into sugary language designed to sound compassionate:

Perfectly imperfect.

But the rage inside her — the wildness, the divisive and rebellious force she had once been taught was almost demonic — rose up and shouted:

Fuck you.
There is nothing “perfectly imperfect” about any of this.
Let me have my pain.
Stop trying to correct me.
And please, God Almighty, stop trying to fix me.

Because there is a particular violence in being handed comforting language while you are still bleeding.

And yet, after the dust settles, after the electricity leaves the room and her fury exhausts itself against the walls of existence, she can still hear their voices repeating it softly:

Perfectly imperfect.

Only now it lands differently.

Not as correction.
Not as spiritual branding.
Not as a demand to become smaller, softer, easier to digest.

And do you know what she does then?

She declares clemency.

Not just for herself, but for all of them.

Because she realizes they are not imperfect either. They cannot be. It is impossible once you understand what you are and why you are here. Even suffering belongs. Even contradiction belongs. Even rebellion belongs.

A crooked carrot still grows from the earth with the same stubborn intelligence as every other living thing.

Nothing arrived incorrectly.

Nothing living could.