Don't touch me.
Don't tickle my mind and relive my past.
I was yours;
let's compare and contrast
the sequel to the original mask .
It's not your task to measure what I lack.
It's your nature that tells you to attack.
It's time to release the reaper from it's leash.
No coincidences; only consequences.

Perhaps I will become a waxing fiend.
A perpetrator of the nerves within my legs
In order to reach the imaginary beauty
that society has ingrained into my open mind.
Yet how can I ever fulfil this growing hole inside
Urging, commanding that I shall not be beautiful
Without Revlon mascara and tinted eyebrows,
That my diet must consist of a celery stick a day
And I must have a new wardrobe every week
- to keep in with the highest of fashions.
Do men really care if I'm wearing Gucci or Prada?
Would my restricted diet and devotion to thinspiration blogs impress them?
Has society really just given up on the love of personality,
the good old fashioned 'inner beauty'?

If only all these perfect words that I have been tearing my hairs out to find, would stumble off my tongue, out of my mouth and fly through the air to land safely in your ears. A mutual moment of absolute understanding.
But those words, those perfect beautiful words are getting trapped on the roof of my mouth and what comes out on the other end is a message incomplete.
It's like telephone.
My message was "I love you" but the sound distorted as it was passed around the circle, from head to head, whisper to giggle to whisper. It came out, "I HUFF GLUE!"
We lost it, somewhere from A to B.