My life is perfect. My family is perfect, my friends, my house, my school, everything is just perfect. Kids look up to me and want to be exactly like me. I've spent the last three years making me this perfect girl. I got myself into the popular crowd. I became obsessed with make-up and clothes, just like I'm supposed to. I dated lads that I was meant to date. The sporty ones, the fit ones, the one that are also meant to be perfect.

I was the one that everyone loved. The one that was cheeky to teachers but that made me their favourite. The one that has the parents that were oblivious to what they do when they go out. The one that makes no mistakes and is just perfect.

The only thing that isn't perfect is my room. It is a mess. The dressing table had left over food and nail varnish spilt all over it. The floor was covered with dirty clothes that I no longer wear. Memories were hidden under my bed or on top of my wardrobe, left to live in the dust.

I walked into my room and smelt the musty smell that I have become accustomed to. I looked around at the shoes and the make-up and the clothes. I didn't feel the need to put together outfits and check my hair as I normally do. Something just felt wrong. They didn't feel like they were mine. I walked into this room and it felt like some stranger's . I felt almost sick.

I went downstairs to find my mother on the phone, my dad in garden and my sister playing with our pet dog, Hammy. They were all in the right places. I realised how my life runs like clockwork. Everything is done at the specified time. Something else that is just perfect.

"Mama, something doesn't feel right. Have you been into my room?" She was rushing around, trying to find some file for her boss.

"Poppy, I wouldn't go into that room if you paid me. Have you ever thought about tidying it up a little." I went back up the stairs and once again walked into the musty smell. Something sticking out from the side of my wardrobe caught my eye. I knelt beside it and pulled it out until i could see what it was.

It was a photo. It was me three years ago, before I started secondary school. I had lanky hair and spots all over. I was wearing my geeky glasses and clothes that totally didn't match. Then there was the boy with his arm around me. James. He looked like he loved me, spots and all. He saw past the looks. I remember the feel of him when he hugged me, the smell of his skin. I also remember the day he died. That was the day I decided to change.

Tears started to roll down my cheeks. Memories that I thought were long gone suddenly resurfaced. I dug further behind the wardrobe and found an old teddy that a distant aunt had given me. I kept on going till I had pulled everything out. I then moved on to under my bed.

I cleared away all the clothes and make-up and piled the memories into a pile in the middle of my room. Som amny memoreis that made me want to cry and laugh.

I completely cleared my room of the "perfect" me. I put up old posters and placed teddies back on my bed. The last thing was the photo that I hung on the wall so when I woke up I would see it and it would remind me of everything.

Perfection isn't perfect. Nothing can be perfect. When I was "perfect" all I was doing was hiding away who I truly was. Perfection is infact imperfect. I don't believe anymore that the old me was perfect. It wasn't me. The new me is. I haven't exactly gone back to the spotty eleven year old, but I am getting better grades and have stopped worrying about how I look. In James's eyes, I was perfect and I'm sure I will be perfect in someone else's. Until then, I'll just have to wait.