The mirror was always her enemy. Making her look distorted and out of place. She learned to detest it. And herself. Every time she looked into it she found a new part she hated about herself. Monday it was her thighs, Tuesday her arms, Wednesday her nose, eyes, and lips. Jars half full of pocket change lined her dresser, each with their own label: Nose job, Boob job, Light bo suction.. Every night she wishes to wake up and look beautiful. And when the dawn light shined on her face, she only found a new thing to hate. This grew and festered inside her like an open sore that would never heal. Days and months would pass her like time in the wind, but nothing would past her imperfect lips, only come out; every night hanging over her porcelain medicine. But it would only make her happy for a moment, till she turned to the mirror. Nothing made her happy anymore, not even losing a pound. The sore is growing bigger inside her and slowly turning into an infection. The mirror wasn’t her only enemy. Every magazine ad, TV show and music video pointed out every one of her flaws. Turning to the silver blade that sat behind her mirror, she wanted to take refuge from it all. Looking into her hollowed eyes drawing out the blade that would make everything okay. Pushing it into her skin, slowly making it back toward her elbow she felt a rush. Crimson started to flow out of her wound and she just sat there against the wall watching it dance as it hits the floor. Motionless and unable to move she goes in for another dose of medicine. “A little deeper, a little better” she thought as she dug it into her arm. An exhale of relief comes when she wrapped the blood soaked towel around her wrist. She was sitting in a sea of her own blood slowly breathing in and out. She made her way to bed, flipping on the TV hoping it wouldn’t show something she had grown to detest.
This became normal for her, an everyday routine. The sore inside her turning to a disease that had no treatment. It was spreading fast, soon it wasn’t good enough. Numb inside, not even the deepest slit could fix it. An orange pill bottle sat pretty on the crimson covered sink. She took one, two, three, four… She knew there would be no cure, the sore turned into a cancer. Spreading to every part to her body, she only had months to live.

The routine continued, the cuts were deeper, the pill count was higher but the scale number wasn’t low enough. She locked the white door that held all her secrets behind it. “This is the night” she thought. “The night all the pain would go away.” Grabbing the orange bottle and a new silver razor blade taking her seat on the tiled floor. She started with the blade, two deep cuts across each arm. She closed her eyes like those many nights before. Just thinking. Before she opened the white lid on the bottle she told herself “One, two, three, four, five….”