Sick Perfection

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A consistent burning sensation in my resistant throat,
The sicknesses of perfection have begun.
With my brush in hand knowing only one motive,
To get the evils that entered my body.
Gaging saliva shoots out from my mouth,
Tears running down my warm red cheeks as I go from size 5, to 3, to 1.
Am I beautiful now?
As beautiful as the body of goddess,
But as evil in the mind as the thoughts of a devil.

With my persistent attempts to engage,
Engage in your sick perfection,
A creature unknowingly is born.
Has it made me beautiful?
They are not satisfied,
Neither am I.





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