She mocks me in
all of my attempts,
and yet she
urges me on.
Until I’m tired-
Until I’m
starved-
Until there is
nothing left of me.
She takes
everything away,
With intentions
to cure, but only harms.
Now, I am
growing faint-
on this path of
self-destruction,
on this road of
isolation.
She rules me by
numbers,
as I ignore the
hunger…
for beauty and
perfection,
to the extent of
desperation.
To be weightless and
fragile-
even if it is my own private
exile.
To be lovely and finally
free,
Oh, she begs for the “ideal”
me.
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