She stands in front of the mirror,
aware of the fix coming hither.
Her eyes are smudged with dark eye shadows,
those memories come floating when she was called a fatso.
That day she promised herself, without ant feeble attempts,
to attain the figure of perfection.

Five years from then she hadn't spoken to her friends.
She lived a life of complete isolation,
thrown out of the place which was once her nation.

She dabbed a heck lot of make up, afraid that without it she'd have a huge break up.
Insecurities easily crept in her like a creeper,
all those drugs that she took made her an all time sleeper.
The society labeled her a freaking punk,
you couldn't ever catch her without getting drunk.
Nobody was getting her except her little razor,
who would impale her skin deep and through like lazer.

She lived all alone and cried every night,
looking at her ruining life she couldn't take it out of sight.
What went wrong, what did she do?
She only wanted to be perfect to fit in her own shoe.
So where does all of this pain come from, that lives inside her like a host?
She tries everything, but it comes back haunting her like a ghost.