She looks into the mirror. Her eyes gaze over her body. Every part is too big for the clothing that she has adorned herself in.
She looks to her midriff. Bulging fat is hanging out of her jeans, which were only bought last month. They hang mockingly, ha we knew you would never fit into these.
She lowers her eyes to her legs. They were labelled athletic many years ago. Today, she sees them as two large stumps that are only used to hold up the rest of her body, just like a tree trunk holds its branches. Yet her tree doesn’t have anything pretty growing on it. Her, once muscular, thighs giggle when she changes her stance. Leaning more of her weight on one leg to then becoming as straight as a pencil, as she can achieve. Lower down, she notices her calves are bellowing out. They look like a man’s calves. I don’t want a man’s calves.
She raises her round face and examines her large cheeks that have been commented on throughout her whole life. I just want to pinch those cheeks. Awww, your cheeks make you look so cute. WOW, your cheeks have gone down, look what a little exercise can do. Her face is round, just as they all tell her. Her cheeks are larger than life, complimenting her large nostrils. Her chin, well chins, are out in the open for all to see. There are only three, including her real one, but they make up more of her face than anything else.
She stares to her right, at the white wall of her bedroom. Tears begin to well up. But, she fights them down. I am pretty, looking back at herself in the mirror. Really?
She begins touching her body. Grabbing at her stomach. Trying to find the parts to cut off. Trying to find her faults. Grabbing at her arms. Trying to keep the flab up. Trying to find the muscles. Grabbing at her ass. Trying to find the right consistency of fat and muscle. Trying to understand why her large ass isn’t stared at by all the guys. Isn’t that what they want?
She can’t do it anymore. She can’t look at it anymore. At her body.
Her eyes. They see her looking at them. They see what she sees. Sadness is filled in them. Sadness and sorrow. She looks at them. She sees them for the first time. They are a simple, common brown. They aren’t anything special. Yet they are. They wonder with her. They ponder with her. They are her. She is them.
They are pretty. She is pretty.