War Paint

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A voice whispers into her sleep-deprived ear. 

A voice full of malice.

A voice desperate to pinch and pierce and punch at her skin 

Until she kicks and screams and

Hurts 

In ways she thought she never could. 

 

She suffocates her gasping skin in make-up,

Shrouds it in billowing clothes, 

Constantly feeling the excess that should not be. 

 

The voice turns to laughter 

As it reminds her of the mirrored monstrosity,

The bruises begin to show 

And she sees nothing except the blemishes, the inadequacy, the hurt. 

 

But underneath the bruises, 

Lies a weak, shimmering spirit. 

 

It lies in wait, 

Until it is ready to overcome the voice and the bruising it inflicts, 

And until she herself is ready to accept it. 

 

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