I want to be perfect

I've been struggling with binge eating for a year or so now, and this is just a little monologue poem thing I wrote during some of the worst of it.

Could you tell it by sight.

My story, could you see it.

In the cascading waves of bronzed hair that twist at my back and tickle the bare skin, could you see that I've never cut it, that my mother wouldn't let me until last summer.

In my wonky smile, could you tell the practised times I've sheltered behind it in the hope that noone would see beneath it, see the vulnerable girl trapped behind it.

I want to seem strong, you see.

In my jawline, could you see the panic, the ground teeth, the pursed lips that shifted into a shaking, solid stillness when my father had an episode, threw things across the room, shouted and willed to be shouted at. 

Could you see the imprints in my hands where I held him, stroked his back to ease the pain as he shuffled back inside himself to where the monster lay. He'd hope to slay it.

He wants to stop hurting, you see.

In the stretch marks on my legs, could you see the endless hours I'd willed them away, wished for a more perfect version of myself. Could you see the hatred that washed through me when I saw myself in the mirror.

Can you see the hatred now, festering in my eyes. The fire there, washing through, because when I look in the mirror I stare back at myself. Hating the reflection, and her hating me. 

I want to be perfect, you see.

Can you see?

The End

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