Pretty Girl

I became a plastic surgeon at the age 8

Using my two fingers as if they were scissors, to cut each and every roll and imperfection off my body. But nothing changed. The person in the mirror never reflected back this runway model I dreamt of being one day . The reflection was doing nothing more then screaming, screaming out I will never be good enough. What started as a light gloss in my eyes at a early age, soon became thunder storms that would never go away. It was as if each tear that dropped from my eye was a drop of acid leaving a mark for everyone to see the weakness that has come over me. At the age of 12 those same two fingers became a gag, constantly finding their way down my throat with no out come. It didn’t work. which left my soul covered in my thick layer of last nights meals which I couldn’t get rid of any faster. At age 13 I wanted result, I was tired of hoping , I was going to get a result this time. I wanted to start to reach for my dream in becoming a pretty girl. What started as a missed lunch here and there, then easily turned into a week with no food. But what they don’t tell you is it’s also, a week with little sleep, a week of shaking, a week of trapping your self with this idea of this perfect person you made in your head, This girl has a perfect belly, a perfect smile, the perfect Arms, the perfect legs, the perfect life. This soon would become you. You would soon become a pretty girl.

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