you call me perfect and i don't know what to say. I don't know how to explain the agony and raging self loathing that lies beneath my skin. It's not even like i'm pretty on the outside and all the ugliness and hatred is hidden away. It's all out there for everyone to see. My snaggled hair, my dull skin. freckles peppered unevenly accross my nose. Eyes too cloudy, eyelashes too short. Ears too small, nails too thin. Skin too pale, torso too short. Legs not long enough, thighs too big. Hips untoned, chest too small. Ankles too slim, wrists that only draw attention to my spindly fingers. Lips too dry, teeth too dull. Nose too pink, cheekbones too unpronounced. I'm too short, i'm untoned, i'm sad and it's more painful to look in the mirror than it is to do anything else in the entire world. So why, why would you tell me that i'm perfect? Why would you humiliate me in such a way? Because it is, you know, humiliating. To be told that you're perfect, just to be made aware that you're not. Someone calls you perfect and you're sat there, alert and painfully aware of all your flaws, out there to be seen. It's mocking, it's patronising. It's the dagger words that splinter away at my chest while i sleep, beelining for my weak and pathetic heart.
Beautiful. Pretty. Amazing. Gorgeous. Goddess.
the words themselves make me physcially ill. What the fuck is wrong with me
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