Perfect

by anonymous

Tears

spilling down

her cheeks.

Eyes watering

with sadness.

Cheeks

with streaks of red

and pink

from crying.

Fingers

lingering at

her eyelids,

wiping droplets

from her face.

Saltwater

rolling down

her cheeks

like rain

descending from the sky.

Tears

dropping

onto the carpet

of her bedroom floor

as she stands

in front

of the mirror,

staring at her

reflection.

 

Auburn hair

cascading down her back

and falling,

just right,

to her hips.

Lips,

pink and full

but cracked

from the dry air.

Blazing green eyes,

glowing with hate

and longing.

Dressing herself

in baggy sweatpants

and a ratty, old t-shirt

with her hair

in a messy braid

and feet

enclosed

in woolly socks.

 

Why

can’t I

be perfect?

she asks herself.

Why

must I be stuck

in this body,

this overweight body

that mocks me?

Why

does it seem

that everyone

is perfect

and I

am

not?

 

She looks down

at her feet

in her rainbow socks.

She sits

in front of the mirror

and slowly pulls them off,

one at a time.

Her bare feet

seek shelter

in the folds of the

soft, fluffy carpet

on the hardwood floor,

toenails painted crimson.

She takes

the bottle of nail polish

and paints another coat

of ruby red,

of scarlet.

Crimson runs down

her toes like blood

and sinks into the carpet.

She tries to clean it up

with her fingers,

but they

become stained

with the crimson

nail polish.

She wipes her fingers

on the glass mirror,

cutting her finger

on a broken shard.

Blood

runs down her arm,

staining her ratty white t-shirt.

She sighs

and stares into the mirror,

overlooking

the nail polish

running down

the glass surface.

Perfect,

what does it mean

to be perfect?

Who

truly is

perfect?

she asks herself

as she

wipes her tears

from her red face

and pokes at her stomach

that bulges out

of her t-shirt.

Why

can’t I be

skinny

like everyone else?

Is there

something

wrong with

me?

 

She runs her fingers

through the oily snarls

of her copper locks

of hair

and makes a face

of disgust.

How

can my hair

be this flawed

while everyone else

has perfect

and silky

and smooth

locks of beautiful hair?

 

The girl

sucks in her stomach

and stares

into the mirror

at herself.

Her eyes

flash with a look

of disgust,

of longing to look

different,

to be beautiful.

If I looked like this,

she thinks,

I’d become closer

to perfect

than I have even been

before.

I’d feel better

about myself.

She closes her eyes

and wills herself

to lose weight

and eat better

and exercise

to become

perfect.

She leaves,

with her eyes closed,

and doesn’t look

in the mirror,

for her fear

of seeing herself

without perfection

prevents her from doing so.

She feels

that she won’t

go through

with the diet

or exercising

she promised

she would do

to become

perfect.

 

She paces back and forth

in front of her mirror

with her eyes closed,

waiting for some sign

that she can

finally

be perfect

and not the

fat,

stupid,

hideous,

unattractive girl

that everyone

thinks

or will think

she is.

Her heart

pounds in her chest

as she slowly

opens her eyes

and looks

in the mirror

for the first time

in weeks.

 

The girl’s

auburn hair

is pulled

into a messy bun

with stray strands

sticking out,

dressed in

a purple baggy t-shirt

and loose-fitting sweatpants

with the same rainbow socks

stained with

red nail polish.

She bursts into tears,

sinking onto the ground

with her back to the mirror.

Tears

run down her face

when she finds out

that she is not as

perfect

as she thought

I am not

perfect.

I thought

I could become

perfect

with this diet

and these exercises

and being

positive,

but I

can never

be perfect.

 

Her face falls

and her tears

drop

onto the

hardwood floor

as she stares down

at her overweight stomach

and her large thighs

and her big waist

and her long arms

and thinks

that she

will never

be

perfect.

 

Another girl

across the street

looks at herself in the mirror

and thinks,

Why

can’t I be perfect

like the girl

living across from me?

She is flawless,

and I am not.

She pinches her plump arms

and her large stomach

and her big thighs.

Tears

form in her blue eyes

and fall down her pale cheeks.

Her blonde hair

in a ponytail

falls down her back.

She is dressed

in a tight tank top

and form-fitting leggings

with no socks

and toenails

without nail polish.

She throws herself

onto her bed

and cries herself

to sleep.

 

But

perfect

does not mean

being flawless

means being true to yourself,

not flawless

and attractive.

It means that you

are comfortable

in your own

body.

It does not mean

that you should

try to have someone else’s

body.

Being perfect

means that you do

what you want to do,

not what others pressure

you to do.

By feeling that

they need to be

perfect

and beautiful

and gorgeous,

just like the models

they see on television

or in a magazine,

they have been

corrupted

by thinking that they

have to be

attractive

and alluring.

Perfect

should not

mean

flawless,

for it causes

girls and boys

and everyone else

to feel that they

aren’t beautiful

or pretty

or worth it.

 

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