Little miss perfect

I always watched her from a distance, the little miss perfect.

Her smile; it lit up a room, it took the prowess of a stalker to realize the frown lines that accompanied the bubbly face.
Pretense; it was a game society had taught her perfectly, and she had perfected her skills you wouldn’t really realize her pain.
I watched the sparkle in her eyes, everyone commented on how bright it made her face look, but I noticed the glitters were from unshed tears she constantly kept in check. She would blush, a tingling rose would color her cheeks, then look down in nervousness. Her constant perfect-it shadow commended herself for her achievement but deep inside she ached to be freed from the cage that was her life.
I watched her from the shadows, the little miss perfect.

She had to please everyone she loved, even if she didn’t want to do it. Slim was the theme of the society. I watched her puke her meals to attain the perfect figure. Bad boys were the flavor of the year. As she skipped from one abusive relationship to another unfaithful lover, she sighed, but she had to keep up with appearances.
I saw the dreamy look in her eyes, as she tried to cover she slits that escaped with her wrists from her skimpy long sleeved dress. She wanted an out, but she had people to please. Her parents needed to notice her existence, the school needed to be proud of their valedictorian, the hood, alas, this was her perfect killer crowd, but still, who would like to hang out with a freak that didn’t have a boyfriend, that didn’t do drugs. Talk about stuck between a rock and a hard place!
I watched her from my countless anonymous social media pages, the little miss Imperfect.

She was spiraling down the route to her destruction. The road was spinning hard and fast. She had finally lost track of what was important to her. For now, it was important to be the perfect miss for all to see.
She strived to set the record straight, her selfies had to be epic, no one needed to know she cried in her bathtub before she went to sleep. She was famous for all the wrong reasons, it made her inner demons rejoice. Her soul cried in despair from torture, suppression and suffocation from the imposter.
I watched her from the mirror, the little miss unworthy.

Her name was shame, her name was worthless, she was never important, or so she thought. The society made her believe, it filled her mind with images that caused her distress. With her back hunched, she finally gave in to defeat, she was now a slave to societal perception, a follower of the crowd, a believer of their cheers and jeers, a doer of their unreasonable demands, a pleaser, an abomination.
The slits were now more visible; I could see the deep red sauce trickle down her bony arms. I saw her sad smile, and her jovial relief. The end was finally near. She recounted her journey.

The noose she tried in her head, but movies made it seem too painful, the uncontrolled discomfort as one struggled for their last breaths. No, it would make her realize the importance of oxygen, a complicated explanation she failed to comprehend in biology.
The pills she tried, but they took too long, she was found before she crossed the finish line…
In her blur, I watched her watch me, she tried to reach out, time was far gone.
I watched her from her hospital bed, the little miss perfect.

Her baby, they told her, her little boy, the one she once thought she couldn’t bear to raise, had stared at her bloody heap sprawled on the floor and cried for help. A result of intercourse she did not consent.
Deep inside, she condemned her environment. The society had almost orphaned her little prince. She made a resolve, one she had to grasp hard to, in the fear of slipping again.
No more drowning. She no longer strived to please, she would strive to love. She had learnt the hard Love herself. Love her flaws. Love her weaknesses. Damned be what society thinks!
If they loved her, they wouldnt mind her size and her scars. All those who judged were a reflection of the devil swaggering across the earth seeking to devour the naive. She was ready to worry about those, only, who worried for her.
I no longer stare at her, little miss perfect, I stare at you, little miss broken.

My name is survivor. I see you see me; I know you feel the caress of my whispers in your darkened soul. know I am in there somewhere. One day, when you decide to let me out, then I can save you from the pain, I can show you that you are love, you are strong.