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Dying Girl

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The weekend is over—again.
I pull out drawers and throw clothes on the floor until I find a dress—then a tight belt, in a sorry attempt to look skinny. The belt is wide and practically crushes my ribs, but I don't have time to figure out anything else.
I rush to my vanity and pile on makeup—lip gloss—no, lipstick, red, not peach, mascara, but not too much. Then I do anything I can to cover the acne, then I rush to the bathroom.
I throw up, then brush my hair and teeth, and touch up my makeup again. I feel woozy, thinking about what's coming later in the day.
As I swiftly walk out of my room, I steal a quick glance in the mirror—at the plastic face of a dying girl.
Then I put on my best smile, and leave for school. 




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