{this came from somewhere but i can’t find its home i’m so sorry}
“I wish I was prettier.”
“Then do something about it.”
I could.
I could strip myself down, layer by layer, skin by skin.
Dunk myself in a vat of foundation. Massage it into my pores, so hard that my knuckles turn purple, so hard that my bones clatter. I want to cover all my blemishes: every single detail.
Lipstick will leave bright red lines on my lips and down my arms in haphazard, jagged lines, as if they’re asking for me to raise my hands and surrender.
When I look into the mirror, my eyebrow pencil marks will question me, whisper things only I can hear, over and over again: “do you really want to go out looking like this? Is this really the right shape for you?”
– And when they are silent, all I can see are the blemishes. The uneven skin tone, the acne, the large pores, the oil, the raw bareness of a naked face.
I put foundation back on. –
My mascara will shut my eyes closed. My bronzer will find its way into my mouth and leave a sour taste. My foundation will begin to run, as sweat runs down my face; cold sweat, waiting for approval.
A pin drops.
I will go back. I will go back and change it all. Buy a new moisturizer, yes. Get a toner. I will scrub harder, I will wake earlier, I will force myself to look into the mirror until my eyes stop twitching in response.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I stand in the valley of the shadows, where gold is promised to lie ahead, but the only path I can see before me is self-loathing. This is my path to take; not anybody else’s – mine alone.
I close my eyes, and I teeter.
And yet, I feel like without having to move my legs, I will get swept forth eventually.
tender thoughts; 