Disaster is written in the scars that are made from a blade.

Dark circles suffocate the light inside me, and create a darkness that doesn't fade.

Imperfections party hard with their dance along my sensitive winter skin.

My back slouches as the weight of the world comes crashing in.

The list does not end.

This isn't who I am, or who I want to look to be;

The mooched belly, and the puffed cheeks delude the beauty really in me.

I yearn for soft, I pleade for gentile;

I crave sweetness, and devour the fragile.

There is a girly-girl alive in me, wanting out of this haunted "beauty."

So, I conceal the darkness, and I correct the dancers;

Smile for the camera and filter the sadness.

No longer do I look broken; no longer am I nothing.

People adore me, and I am something.

It's not my natural stature, it's not reality, but

I am who I want to be when I have the newest technology.



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