Grotesque Perfection

This is basically a poem about the cruelty of 'perfection' - perfect being 'supermodel-esque'.

There you stand,
all wonderful and righteous
in your cold, hard, perfection,
as you reduce me to nothing.

Your words mean nothing to you.
You’ve used them countless of times before
and you’ll use them again, no doubt.
Your words, they stab at me and wound me
like a thousand knifes, your razor-sharp consonants
and vowels tear and slash at me.
Your words, they’re nothing but echoes
of the minds of the cold and cruel clique
that dictate what is acceptable in this
society.

There you stand with your spotlessly manicured hands
resting on your perfectly formed waist,
surrounded by your pack of fabulous, flawless
freaks. There you stand passing your stolen
judgements onto me.
And no-one stops, no-one stares,
because you have the right to destroy
me.

You are perfect in every way.
And yet I feel sickened when I look
into your cold, hard, dead eyes
and see into the empty shell of your soul.
Your humanity has been replaced by
Grotesque Perfection.

The End

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