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a perfect slim hourglass figure with a snatched waist and a gap between the thighs. most bitches with butter knives sought to peel their skin to achieve this body, whilst some goddesses were born with it not having to wish that they can genetically alter their physical body by vomiting and starving.
most nights i ask myself why do i hate mine as i try to question beauty standards. i would put on blush to hide the fact that i am pale, and put on concealer to erase the fact that i couldn’t sleep. i don’t forget the gloss so my dehydrated lips won’t be noticeable since i’ve been struggling to eat and drink.
but then again, i remember. i wasn’t popping pills because i wanted a thin frame, neither put on make up to look like a certain idol, the same as to why i dress “modestly” so my skin wouldn’t be looked at by men, but to cover up the bruises that has been mysteriously appearing out of nowhere. i take care of my hair because it was falling out lately, and lace my neck with perfume to cover up the smell for my body struggles to take a bath since my knees were so weak. and that i was throwing up not because i wanted to lose weight.
i hated my body because it was the one who failed me.