Island of Dismorphic'sMature

We are known as the Dismorphic ones.


Our minds have clouded our thoughts with a fat lie. Our mind has its own voice, but its not the one you wanted to hear. It sounds like the Blonde, skinny bitch at school. Who tosses her glossy hair and  blows kisses to the unfortinate. It rats you out, on your own self, But why?  Why, is because we are known as the Dismorphic's. Us girls sit quietly within a mirrior and watch ourselves eat. Naked. We cry in a closet alone, because this area of skin isnt the correct size. We pick and Pull ourselves apart to where there is nothing left. Until we take a break and come back for more.

Our mind has an idea of who we want to be. A picture saved in the searched memory of where our hands typed in images. When our head photographically remembered them, and abused us with them. We used it as a joke, an inspirtation, and a weapon. It's weird to think our biggest bully in life is ourself. Because our bestfriend, mom, pretty girl from class, and your biggest crush can say you're the most beautiful. But our mind wont let the words process through. Instead it crushes the words like a virus and wards them off to be long forgotten. Because we are known as the Dismorphic's.

Our legs are not thin enough, our arms are not toned enough. But we can't stop because that skinny blonde bitch, in mine and yours head, tells us we will never be enough. We cant shake the feeling, but every day we walk around like nothing is wrong. We work our asses off to get better. Just when we thought we were getting better, someone cuts us down. So we start at base one again. No one is there to tell us they are proud of you and me. That we have come a long way. That they can see the change and the progress. WHY is it is so hard to tell me I am good enough, i look good enough, I am beautiful enough. That you can see all the changes I am making to change MYSELF. Can you see that iI am struggling? Because I am known as a Dismorphic.

 

The End

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