Broken Glasses

She looks into the mirror at the woman before her, the stretched scars on every fold of her body, the imperfections, so overtly beheld. Her attempts go to a million, yet she loses nothing but will. She's a large frame who barely fits in, like she does in her garms, unlovely, displeasing, and far from charming, she calls. They look at their person with such disdain, their visage unsymmetrical, their arms, never slender. The necklines, the patches of colour, the gap unseen, "Even beauty marks don't seem beautiful to me." They wish if only they could be like those on the big boards or the covers of magazines everyone adores Instead they cry in the corner, desperate to disappear. He sees others, the toned and fit, the delight to the eye and curses at the stick of a limb he was given. A thousand feastings wouldn't be enough to please his body that never grows. Broomstick, featherweight, he's heard it all made himself numb and at the verge of giving up, he stood. Flawless, pristine, the centre of everyone's envy, she's a model figure, tailor made to fit like a glove. But that which causes the maleficent chase for an hourglass shape has her body crumbling like the sand that's enclosed in. Her organs give out with every supplement, pain rack her bones. Oh what she'd do to turn back time, to break away from the distorted delusions and to be imperfect all over again.