I am just a mutation of the monstrosity we coined society. I see the knife as it flays at my waist; my skin rejoicing at the idea that soon, SOON I can fit into those jeans he told me I would look good in. I worry for my sister, for all the girls whose mother doesn't realize that Barbie's eyes are manipulating; just another spawn of make-up corporations and his inquisitive mistress. I stand helpless as she submits to voluntary starvation. I watch as she turns her index into a joust. I hear them telling me "Plus size is beautiful", but I don't see nuttin' positive about it. My conscience is just as insulting as the Yoplait I use to substitute my cheesecake. I feel these love handles. They are just fiendin' hands that carry my insecurities. I wonder why drugs rule everything around me, DREAM. They say pop a couple pills y'all. I breathe the propaganda laced air that poisoned my pupil's perception of pretty. I understand this outrage stands no chance against popular demand, but I'm afraid I don't have enough to supply Who am I?
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