"Clearer"

I pick myself apart, till my bones are clean of my flesh, Maybe if I don't eat, I can look like them. The reflection tells me, Without "perfect hair," "perfect skin," You will never be worthy. I could scroll for hours, Comparing myself to all those girls, Who probably feel the same, Though they'll never confess, Because they're too ashamed. "I am the standard!" She proclaimed, Standing in the mirror, Her imperfect hair, Makeup smudged with fears. Tears of mascara scream for help. Her gentle face, Now smeared in disgrace. Those trends she follows, Now hide in the past. You think she'd feel some sense of relief, But when cameras no longer aim to her, She thinks of her childhood. It twirls around her mind, Making her knees feel weak, Her stomach curls. Fingers tangled in her hair, She thinks of her father, And how he was never really there. She'd never blame him though, No, not for anything, Because then she'd have to admit, She really did care. Gave up that bitterness, So she thought, But she only traded it for jealousy, The women who show support, She shoves away, Pushing them under the bus, "I don't need you anyway!" She looks at herself, And finally sees, Maybe I'm not broken on the outside, But broken beneath, And maybe those compliments weren't lies, So maybe I should take off- This practiced disguise. She looks at herself, Looks in her mirror. With a swing of a fist, The glass shatters, Maybe now she can see, A little clearer, And maybe now, they'll see me for something, Other than my exterior.