They primp you hair.
They give you a glowing tan.
With the help of plastic, your smile has never been bigger.
They make you beautiful.
Well, they tell you you’re beautiful.
But all you feel is trapped.
Imprisoned in your gaudy, sparkly outfit, preparing to dazzle the audience.
All you want to do is scream.
Tear the frill of your dress, smear your makeup, and let out a grotesque growl to prove that you’re not just peachy-keen.
Beneath this facade you’re crying for freedom from the rusted shackles clamped to your free-will.
You have the dream and the wish and the will power to run away from this fabricated life, but you don’t.
You’re scared of the outside world.
Terrified of what is inside of you.
You know that once you tear away at all the cosmetics, all the clothes, the shoes, the glamor, the guilt, the pure rage that has been embedded into you since day one, that you will feel just as ugly as you do now.
That without all of the attention, all of the glamor and fans and trophies and doting mothers affection, you’ll be nothing.
You’ll look in the mirror and you’ll see a pale, skinny, scared and ugly girl gazing back from sunken eyes.
You’re broken. Defined by your reflection.
A stranger stares back at you.
And each shard asks the question: Why?
A worthless little girl.
You and me?
We were never a beauty queen.