Your Perfection Was the Death of You
Inspired by this picture:
Your skin was perfect
smooth as glass
not a single blemish.
Your eyes and your lips
had rounded full shapes.
The kind everyone wants.
The kind that with a little makeup-
just a little-
can be ten times more beautiful.
Your body was also
the epitome of beauty.
Not a line out of place
nor a curve that wasn’t supple
and a flat stomach to match.
And every day you got older
you got more beautiful.
The single photo of you ever put on social media
grew and grew and grew.
Everyone was talking of your skin
And so you grew up
admired and envied by all.
You grew up to take
the place you were meant to in the world
on a runway, on television,
in everyone’s eyes and minds.
But it came to be too much.
Your education cut short-
the intelligent conversations you couldn’t have.
The parties, the paparazzi, the interviews,
the money, the men-
it got too much.
You stopped caring about yourself.
Stopped eating. Stopped living- in some ways.
You could have any man you wanted-
and so you did.
You picked the hottest and the shallowest-
the ones you could be done with the fastest.
Avoiding the cameras became easy.
Avoiding the cameras became your art.
So you fucked them
in your king size bed, on your dining room table,
against the wall in the stairwell, in the back room of the club.
You let them take everything
because you had nothing, deep inside.
You simply didn’t care
about the blood, the hickeys, the bruises the next morning.
You let them all do whatever they wanted with you
before you left.
You didn’t even care if you got pregnant
all that mattered was an hour or two of ecstasy.
Then one of them
got you high.
And then you couldn’t stop.
Now the highs were all that mattered.
Because the only things between the highs
It washed over you
a tidal wave.
And suddenly your perfect skin disgusted you.
You broke a mason jar
the pain as the glass broke through your skin
broke through your guilt.
And so you cut. And cut.
You etched beautiful patterns in your skin.
They found you later
in a pool of blood
your skin flowing with rivers of it.
and then a place for girls like you.
You were the prettiest one there
but perfect no longer.
You were never the same.
like peeling off a layer of skin
who you were-
Your beauty was the death of you-
it killed who you were-
and made you peaceful and innocent again.
Your existence was no longer about beauty.
You stayed at home
where no one and nothing could get to you.
You turned to art-
you found out on accident it was something you were good at.
Many years later,
your scars were there,
but you remembered the reason behind them
and found yourself stronger for it all.
You even thought them beautiful in a way
and so did someone else.
A boy- beautiful and intelligent
not like the ones you’d found yourself with years ago.
An artist too.
His medium was skin.
He gave you the idea to turn your scars into tattoos.
And so you did.
He held your hand and told you he loved you
the whole day the tattoos were painted on you.
The needle reminded you of the glass.
And a flood came.
Emotions from long ago
you didn’t know you still had them.
He held you as you cried
as the code of the wolf was inked upon you.
That’s what you were- a survivor- a wolf.
A wolf that could cry unashamedly
into the arms of the one you love.
A wolf that would endure
A wolf that would walk to the end of its life
with a limp, and a few missing teeth
But a wolf that would walk
with its head held high
with its mate by its side.
You were a wolf, you were a soulmate,
you were flawed beauty, you were new, yet a little old too,
You were alive, you were gone, all because of
the beauty that killed you, and the scars that made you strong.
Whew! That was a lot and just wow I honestly have no idea where that came from because I’ve never done any of those things. If you or someone you know hurts themselves, get help. I am completely serious. Someday, you’ll go too far. People WILL cry over you. Please get help. Before it’s too late.