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Co-written with the fabulous ToritheMonster, check her out guys.
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Rated for strong topics.
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She was thin and delicate, like any butterfly should be.
When she opened her wings, they were eager to rip them off, to pin her down with their corkboard glares, robbing her of the right to fly. They found fault in everything, pounds of imperfection; they picked her clean until she was a skeleton, vultures stealing cartilage and marrow with just stares. And slowly, the idea of flesh began to scare her.
After that, it was easier to put on a Chesire Cat smile with tiny porcelain teeth and politely accept the nectar, to allow it to disgustingly churn down her throat and bubble up under her skin. Later, once the vultures with hungry eyes were gone, she would empty it from her body, expelling ugliness with a scarred finger and a single heave. It was easier to pretend the sour acid that shot up her throat didn't exist, even though it burned the soft tissue of her mouth and rot her teeth from the inside out. Her attention was sharper with pain and soon, she stopped getting headaches at 10am, 2pm and 7pm respectively.
It came to be that it didn't matter. She was pinned, dead to the world. Mold grew on her bones but onstage- in the light- she looked like she was still flying. She would wear a mannequin smile, with dainty, jutting hips and a sharp collarbone, skin stretched taut over wooden bones. Lies were told, yes, i've had lunch. no i would not like a piece of cake thank you excuse me i need to use the bathroom but for some reason, Pinocchio's nose never grew. It's said that puppets have no mind of their own, but she was learning to see through her strings.
The mirrors were critics, too. Her eyes were once blue, flecked with stardust, but now they seemed empty: they longed for more than the universe could ever give them. As she stared, her reflection became something new. What once had wings was skin and bones; what once danced on the verge of perfection was finite. What was left was no longer beautiful. She was determined though, and reflections were nothing more than shining glass.
She was beyond living, beyond striving for anything but perfection.
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