Dysmorphia. (Trigger warning)

And I wish people understood how it feels to look in the mirror, to get real close, and experience the deep rooted horror of knowing you can’t change what you see looking back. 

Sure, you can make it thinner, change the colour of the hair upon it, but the stature and the shape and the features will stay the same. 

You’ll still wonder when you look in the mirror while tugging at your skin, why one side is more easy to look at than the other? Why your collar bones are so thick and wide? 

Why your blueprint is just so fucky… 

You’ll cry and wonder while staring at your reflection why you couldn’t have been gifted with symmetric features like your mother, or born male to make your face more tolerable, more acceptable, like those of your father and brother. 

You’ll google plastic surgery costs and procedures and you’ll watch YouTube videos with horror but also hope. Maybe you can be beautiful, after all.. if you just save up. Maybe surgery can help. 

You’ll google phrases like “is having a long face considered ugly?”and “is there surgery to make my features smaller?” and “is Toni Collette ugly?” because you’d been passingly compared to her once by a hairdresser. 

You’ll remember the way you felt appreciated by the opposite sex only when your body was fuckable, when they could ignore the face attached to it and just fuck the bones of you.  Even though you know it’s cruel and wrong, you’ll miss it when looking back in your now fat body, and you’ll sob, wishing you had the resolve to starve. 

Each time you look in the mirror you’ll wonder why your father doesn’t see any beauty in you. Why he finds you so masculine, why he jokes about your gender and big, gammon feet. Why is it he is the one you were fed the lie by stories and films would always see the wonder in you, in your face, on that you could rely. 

And you’ll lay awake at night when your husband is sleeping and wonder what makes you attractive to him.. You’ll conclude it’s likely a dream he’s holding on to, that he hopes maybe one day the bones he so loved to fuck that summer we met will return, if he just perseveres. 

You’ll close your eyes and pray tomorrow is easier, pray that somehow you can stick to a diet and lose some weight. 

Maybe then the bones you were before might return and you can be worthy of love, even if you’re not pretty, before you suffocate in your own fucking skin. 


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