She presses hands to her hips,

Her small finger-lengths pressed into the skin as she struggles to hold onto reality. 

Her belly sticks out, 

Although she longs for it to stay in when she sits down in her favorite dress.

Her skin is too pale,

Eyes too small,

Lips so thin,

And yet she can't grasp onto the idea that

maybe

this is really her skin. 

She thinks of her body as a costume. 

As weight disappears and returns like an old friend she wants nothing to do with,

She can see the different features of her face and she wears them like a mask.

She accessorises them with make-up,

Dresses each eyelid, each lip, each eyelash with something that she thinks looks...

Pretty?

When her eyes go back towards the mirror,

It isn't herself

Why does she love this mask so much?
 

Why is it that the scars on her face must be covered?

Why is it that her eyes must be larger, her eyebrows more defined, her eyelashes longer, her blush perfect and her lipstick soft?

She laughs at these questions,

She knows not of the answers, 

But she laughs nonetheless. 

She scratches at the scabs, pokes at the bruises and pops all the pimples,

She hisses at sunlight, tucks her lips in further and ducks away from the spotlight

She moans and begroans getting dressed, and putting on the layers that make her less her

But she loves the outcome-

The shining shimmering face that speaks of an imperfect perfection that she is afraid to truely know.