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She looks into the mirror, and sees the word UGLY written across her forehead. She sees it scrawled on the apples of her cheeks, and on the stretch of her inner thighs. She sees it on the arms she has that are soft and undefined, and she sees it glow neon beneath the shirt that she uses to try and make herself feel better.
She looks in the mirror, and sees the marked out dotted lines of the figure she wishes that she could have;that she could be: The front view with it’s lines gently curving inward, and the side profile with lines that curve out.
Her eyes mist up at the differences that she sees that don’t match up with those dotted lines: The spaces that spill over, and the spaces that refuse to be filled.
The dog-eared pages of the self-help book she holds soften at the rain of salt-tanged water.
Her eyes mist up and spill over as she whispers the words: “I’m beautiful” to the pane of silver-backed glass, knowing she speaks a lie.

21/06/2014 1.41am penned.
In my ideal world, mirrors don’t exist.

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