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The Power of Perfection

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The Power of Perfection
There’s a special taste that I personally acquire. Only one that I know how to feel, it’s a rage within my mind and spirit. Something I cannot erase, even if I wish it dead to my life. I tell myself I’m full when clearly all is empty, just by the layers covering my soul; the flesh that makes me thicker, when all I wish to be is thin. With this taste there is knowledge, the encyclopedia of my disease. Not a book available in stores, not even a script set to paper. I just know it; I’ve learned the material left and right. The words are imprinted in my mind, forever they will stay. The knowledge is an ease of comfort to my soul, it is the food where the nourishment is absent. I know that just one bite will lead to a binge, and everything that goes in must come back up; the quicker the better. I am well aware that the numbers on the scale don’t lie and chocolate cake is a sin. Never tell a soul, it’s all about the lies. Practice makes perfect, that’s part of the disguise. This body is cynical and so is my mind. Drenched in lost faith I remain, beaten by my own body, wishing it would change.



I’ve given up on that hope now, the one where this sickness becomes my health. The hope that if control my life, if I suffer, the pain will soon become a pleasure. However, it did for sometime I used to love the feeling of starvation, and how we knew each other so well. I’d play tricks with my mind, try to fool myself, look in the mirror and with all simplicity I’d just lie. Soon the girl in the mirror, she stared right back at me. Her cheeks flush, eyes weary, afraid to look at anything more. Never did she look within herself to find beauty only wanting acceptance. The harsh words from the past sprang in her memory as she told herself they were true, because she too believed them. That was me I knew there was something wrong. The problem that drew the blood within me like a needle, it churned my stomach, psyched my brain.

The pressure gave me guilty desires, when the mirror began to tell me lies. Staring into the metallic glass knowing my own worst critic was me. My eyes acted as the mirror to my life; reflecting all they saw. Though my eyes differ from an actual mirror; my eyes hold secrets, underneath that glossy brown, there are lies. I realize that mirrors do not lie. It was the distortion I saw reflected off my very own eyes. All I wanted was to escape, burn the miles away from my body, run away. There’s nothing more undesirable, more irking, than the feeling of being uncomfortable in your own skin; when it’s just your size.

When the topic of my condition was observed, although no one knew I had it, they openly spoke about it. Their words pierced my skin, carved a hole straight through me. As far as the knowledge, it struck me pleading me to speak because I knew the truth about my disorder. They preached their lies directly through their lips, I’d laugh inside about the falsity of their words. Bulimia, eating disorders are not a choice, not anything one can control. Do not tell me that it’s my fault, not that It’s a choice to be this way, because I had it. Excuse me, but after the dramatic phases it pulled me through, and the damage it’s done to my mind. I’ll tell you right now, no one chooses that kind of torture. Believe me, I would know.

I spent a fraction of my life hating myself, despising my every flaw. When clearly all I needed was to love it, adore absolutely ever feature possible. Today I am better, not completely healed, but better. A little progress goes a long way. Now I know that I’ve been beautiful all along, inside and out. Beautiful, maybe even perfect, just the way I am. The perfect version of me, the one I’ve always been.



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