𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖓 𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍

Pretty, be pretty;
with big smiles and bigger titties.
Waists so small they can be wrapped up easily
and hair so thin it can’t stay in.
Whoops, don’t talk about that!
The goal is to be ‘pretty’.

The illusion—the ultimate fantasy.
Prettier than a painting;
with wrists that can fit in one hand.
Fingers so long and gorgeous,
and purple with the lack of oxygen.
Don’t talk about that though—
That’s not ‘pretty’.

The voices ran rampant;
the lies stuck in my head.
Hair loss and weak nails?
Who cared about that?
At least I was ‘pretty’.

Until I looked in the mirror
and saw the hollowing;
a look so sunken it seemed victorian.
Skin grey, lips bleeding,
bruises laid all across my body.
What happened to ‘pretty’?

The smoke cleared
and I made it out okay.
But not without the damage.
Heart monitors and walking canes,
heavy breathing and chronic chest pains.
Stuck in a constant reminder
of ten years wasted;
an uneven trade
just to discover that
I was already
​​​​​​​pretty.