Brutal Honesty.
Leaves blow slowly in the wind outside a window.
In a simple towel. Simple, purely simple.
She sits and writes. So very complex.
Staring. There she stares.
She scrutinizes every feature.
Short legs, a hated feature. Never good enough.
Pearky Breats, still never good enough.
Long Torso, Still never good enough.
Bright Blue eyes, sometimes they are good enough. But that is rare.
Slipping deep into a bath of cloudy water.
She breathes deep. Under the water she can hear her heart beat.
So fragile. So leaf like. Veiny and delicate.
So easy to destroy.
Never living up to expectations.
Always feeling like falling.
She waits. Smelling like vanilla in a warm room.
Waits for a day to not fall...
As she recites this written prose inside her deepest thoughts.