when she looks at herself she sees vile, she sees shame.

even though in the mirror stands a person who is beautiful.

her features are strong and sharp like the edge of that mirror glass, and her round eyes shine like the light reflected off it.

her hair is as dark as the shadow in the corner, but sun kissed as if by the orange lights above. in small, timid waves, it falls down her sides, twisting and dancing in the wind when she moves.

her body is lean, and slender, and tan, but when she looks at it all she sees is the wideness of her waist, which could be so much slimmer, without a rib or two. she sees the plump curves she does not have, the mass she thinks she needs, the mighty stance her small self wants to build—has to build, in order to be beautiful.

she sees a smile that is wretched, despite the glowing whites of her teeth, the sweetness of her full lips, the crinkle of her wide eyes and the wisp of those black lashes. she has hatred for her nose, which is so much too bold, so much too straight, and in no way perfect and upturned like a doll’s. she hates her face, for she is a gargoyle, a swamp beast, whom no one could ever love.

i don’t care what anyone says. i will never be pretty enough to satisfy myself, and it hurts, because i bully me.

for the way that i am which i cannot change, which i know, deep down, someone finds pleasing to look at.

but not me.

not me, because the ugliest creature is what the mirror shows me.