they said “pretty hurts,”
so i cracked my skull open and poured bleach in,
just to fit in the ******* mold—
eyes too small?
cut.
nose too wide?
slice.
smile too sad?
stretch it till it bleeds happiness.

they fed me doll parts with a silver spoon,
called it “glow up,”
called it “self-care,”
but it tasted like burning plastic and daddy issues.
every compliment came with a scalpel.
every love letter was a checklist.

**** too small,
waist too wide,
mind too loud,
heart too 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭.

they want silence.
they want symmetry.
they want a *******
with a filter face
and the soul of a doormat.

so i became her.

sold my reflection for attention.
traded innocence for injections.
let surgeons mold me into a *******
and called it confidence.

but love never came.

he picked the other girl—
the one with peach fuzz and crooked teeth,
who didn’t cry when no one looked at her,
who didn’t bleed to be adored.

and me?
i’m the monster they created.
a Frankenstein ***** with perfume veins,
a haunted mannequin screaming in HD.

god, i hate this face.
i hate what you made me do.
i hate that i begged for this.
i hate that i still check the ******* mirror
hoping i’m finally beautiful enough
to be 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥.

but i’m just Mrs. Potato Head,
and my parts fall off when no one’s watching.
you can’t glue back the soul
once you’ve scraped it off with a scalpel.

congratulations.
i’m perfect now.
aren’t you proud?

𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥.
𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬.

i. eliska writes
ii. plagiarism is a crime
iii. lowercase intended