I run my hands down my body wishing they were erasers, but nothing can erase that torment inside.
The tormenting, desire to be beautiful, and if beauty was a number it would surely be 0.
I want to be swept away by the breeze, have my cheekbones cut glass, and my collar bones hold pools of my tears.
I will be perfect, a vision beauty.
I will shove my calloused fingers down my throat, telling only the toilet my secrets.
The skeletons in my closet will be my moms tuber ware filled with regret.
My irregular heartbeat will tell a story, only I can hear.
I had only wanted to find Beauty.