I used to be strong.
It was phases of improvisation, moments where I would tell myself that I had composure, that my muscular stature and goddess-like physique could and would carry me through.
It didn’t.

Mirrored reflections.
They say more than my scars on my arms or my stomach do, even though ages of self-hatred have not penetrated the pink and alabaster tones of my flesh.
But time doesn’t lie.

Instead we do.
The sun makes us look golden, the fabric makes us look smaller, the chemicals make us look prettier, and the dye makes us more interesting.
But inside we are deteriorating.

Our pores.
They are screaming, open, exposed, and hungering for air, stifled from the inside out,doing all they can do to protect us from ourselves.
It’s never enough.

We won’t be satisfied until our soul has deteriorated from the inside out.
Till our screams are deafening, and the need for physical perfection has wiped us clean of any hope we have to be untouched by man.
Or woman.

I used to be strong.
Until I let everyone else dictate who I needed to be and what it was acceptable to look like, unknowing that I allowed them to dictate what I felt like.
I have still decomposed.


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