Perfection.

 

Perfection

Slamming the door open she drops her book bag to the floor. Running up the carpeted floors she ran to her bathroom. Ripping the door open she ran in, slamming it behind her and sinking down to the floor. Sobs escaped her body, tears streaming down her face. Her eyelashes wet from the salty tears. Her breathing came in little puffs of air. Shaking she stood up. Ripping her shirt off; she looked into the mirror. What's wrong with her? She began to touch her face. Her fingernails leaving red marks. Was it because her smile wasn't perfect? She let a little smile out, only to see how imperfect it was. Her smile slowly fell into a frown. Was it because she was fat? Poking her stomach she saw a little flab.

Or was it because her skin wasn't perfect. Clear like those models you see on magazines and commercials. Letting a little screech she grabbed a hair tie yanking her long brown curly hair into a messy bun she grabbed her sacred object. The object that could make her feel better, with one simple cut. The razor glint in the light. She could practically hear it whisper to her.

Cut. Cut. Cut. Everything will be alright if you cut. It will make you perfect. Her brain recited those lines to her over, and over again. Chanting like a football crowd, going for the touchdown. Bringing the blade down to her skin she let out a little whimper as the end touched her already scarred skin.

One

Two

Three

Four

When can I be perfect, anymore?

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

I just want to be what everybody wants. That perfect friend. That perfect person. That perfection. I want it. I can't have it.

Nine

Ten.

Her wrist, stomach and thighs, were like a canvas. Beautifully twisted, if you think about it. The canvas, stomach, wrist, and thighs. The paintbrush, the blade. With each stroke she releases what's she is feeling inside. She wants people to know what it's like, but she can't. She hides behind long-sleeved shirts, and jeans. She wants people to help; she doesn't want to be judged. She wants people to know, but society has done this to her. Strived her to think perfection is the flawless skinned creature that roam around like walking sticks. Little does she know that will be the death of her.