She stares in the mirror, dismayed,
Fingers splayed across her thighs.
Nails dug deep in flesh and skin,
The stinging pain helping her within.

It reflects her fine; it's not disarrayed,
But it's what she sees; oh, she cries
Something is always wrong,
Too big, too small, too short, too long.

She claws at her imperfections,
Glaring at them angrily, miserably,
Because they refuse to leave her be;
They're everything she can see.

And please, oh, oh Lord,
Why can't she have a small nose?
Sparkling blue eyes, bow-shaped lips?
Flat stomach, perfect hips?

Instead, she has an ugly nose;
Too round and pig-like, obviously.
Too-full lips, murky, brown eyes
And her stomach? Please. 3's her size.

She stares deep into her reflection,
Stares and stares till it all blurs over,
Because she's so ugly, everyone knows
Every repulsive part of her; it all shows

Why can't she be perfect, flawless?
Why can't she be like a model?
Slim and long locks and smooth skin - 
But she isn't. She draws blood from her shin.

And it hurts so bad to feel ugly;
To know you're an abomination;
It's an impossibly unbearable pain - 
So she tries to stop it... not in vain.

And she thinks she really does look prettier - 
She really, really, does, actually,
With her wrists painted a beautiful red.
With the paint sighing on to her bed.

So why stop now? She paints again.
Because that's what it's about, right?
She never wanted pain or self-pity - 
All she ever really wanted was to be pretty.

The End

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