Dysmorphic

The woman in mirror is enormous, thick of waist, and with large, sagging breasts. Her arms and legs are long and thin and flabby… they´re arched. Her face is long, a horse face, with a long and pointy nose, slightly crooked, the forehead is bumpy and cheeks are sunken, making her chin more prominent. Yes, she is prognathous. Her small, beady eyes, are of a dirty brown, rolling in their pits in such a disgusting way, that I wish I had never laid my own eyes on them.

The woman on the mirror is me.

There is so much to fix in that sad creature that it is hopeless to even try. She is broken from birth, a genetic mishap? I can sense pity in people´s words. It cuts deep. I want to hide. What´s the point of dressing a deformity? So I sleep, so I hide, not to pretend I am someone else, but to simply not feel the burden of that body.

Some days she is uglier, some days she is not so hideous. She is never pleasant though. The deformity is always there. I´ve thought of ripping it off my face, and of killing it. I´d tried a couple of times and it did not work. She is still there and I am still here. There is no escape.

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