Reflection of Imperfection

She looked in the mirror and shook her head, freeing the tears previously held by few remaining strands of self-control. There was nothing beautiful in what she saw. Perhaps the emerald in her eyes had sparkled beautifully once. Before …

She redirected her gaze to the picture. To smooth skin, free of stretch marks, scars or dryness. To a gorgeous stomach – flat and defined.

Her hand cupped the bulging mass of her own stomach; traced the shape of one overly-curved side. The tears came faster.

The other woman, her thighs were the picture of perfection – silky and strong, they transformed into an amazingly shaped ass – yes, those were the type of legs every man wanted wrapped around his waist.

Her own … She stifled a sob – they resembled sausage left on the grill way too long. A little wrinkled, with skin that dimpled with every movement. Disgusting. And ass? She’d never had the kind of ass that caught attention. No, she didn’t have one even worth mentioning.

Collar bones. Picture Girl had collar bones that one could trace. Definition. A solid foundation for a graceful neck. A neck that screamed for kisses.

She leaned in closer to the mirror. Did she even have collar bones?

Wait … Yes, there they were; send the search party and they could be found. And her neck … Laughably connected to a double chin.

Her chest was tight, her breathing rapid and harsh. She swatted at the salty drops of jealousy and despair dripping from her chin.

She understood why men chose this type of woman.

Their eyes met. Perfect girl’s were a brilliant blue. Framed gorgeously in a face that belonged on the cover of a magazine. High cheekbones, a button nose and luscious lips all covered in flawless, perfectly tanned skin. Silky blonde hair framed it all with grace. Delicate. Elegant. Strong.

She looked away; stared at the ceiling and let her soul scream, the sobs choking her until the small bathroom spun around her. She crumpled, her knees crushing painfully into the cold tile as her fingers tightened around the picture.

She would never be beautiful. Too many flaws stitched her together. She would never have skin unmarred by life, or a body worth seeing in the light. Her eyes would never sparkle brilliantly with unrestrained joy and her smile would forever be awkward.

She cursed herself. Beat her soul with angry words of criticism, mimicking his words, forcing herself to accept that she was Less Than, unworthy, too fat, unlovable. She was nothing more than a hideous reflection of imperfection.

She glared at the scrawled words on the photo, “if you looked like this …” and she could see no more. Darkness claimed her. Shattered, she lay naked on a wet & cold floor, the picture of perfection beside her, a beautiful mockery of all she would never be.

© Frankie B. 2016 All Rights Reserved

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