The Perfect Look

This dress. It's perfect. I know it is, they said so in a fashion magazine last week. It's black, small.
My legs are showing. And they're not perfect. I like them, but others don't, so a pair of tight stockings should cover them up good enough.
My feet are too small, not proportional. I took shoes a few sizes bigger and then filled the top with cotton wool. I hate heels, but they're recommended with my perfect dress.
I saw a makeup look in a magazine too. I bought all the makeup. It's a lot. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. My hair is curly. I like my curls. Now they're gone. It's all straight. It's better like this.
I have big sparkly earrings that pull my ears because they are too heavy. I hide the cuts on my arms with a pair of gloves. The sparkly bracelet is poking my arm, but it looks nice.
I stand in front of the mirror. My neck is all plain except for a medallion. It's my mothers. I took it off. It doesn't go with the dress. I miss knowing my mother. I tie a little black silk scarf around my neck.
I carry a little clutch. It's empty, I don't need it. But everyone carries it, so I have to have one myself.
The bell. He's here. I open the door and greet him with a light kiss on the cheek. I put on a smile and close the door.
"You are beautiful.", he says.
Of course I am...
Right.
Me...

Cicmila

Perfect

Inside of me, lies a demon.

It's ugly and small, and it feeds on my fears and doubts. I hate it, and it loves it, because my hate makes him even bigger.
If it's one of those days when it's cold outside, and I just don't feel like even getting out of bed, those are the days it loves the most.
It speaks. It tells me I'm not good enough, doesn't let me get to my reasons to live.
But it's not all that bad. I hate it so much I often do things I know it'll dislike: I take care of myself, I love myself, I help out others. That's my little way of rebellion. That's how, in a way, the demon helps me. It makes me push myself more and strive for perfection. It only tells the truth, but if I'm perfect, there's nothing it can say.
...Right?
That's what I think, so I do my best to live my life the way I find perfect. But, the more things I change to perfect, the more new things it finds. It's a fight for survival, I guess. Only one of us can win, and it's a never-ending battle.
Today, I've lost the fight.
I know because I'm alone, in a dark corner of the room, crying.
Today, it got me, and now my tears are like an elixir to it. I hate it.
And that makes it stronger.
Today I've lost the fight.
But tomorrow is another day.
Another fight.
Tomorrow, I can win.
Tomorrow, I can be...

...Perfect.

Cicmila