Dysmorphic

Claws dig into her flesh,
Dragging her confidence out,
Pushing in seeds of societal beauty.
They grow as she does.
Eighteen years and they have bloomed,
Taking control of her mind,
A brain numbing fungus.
Her hair is too curly, too short to fall in ringlets down her back.
Her eyes too dull, there is no colorful shine.
Nose too big,
Lips too small,
Stomach not flat against her ribs,
Her hips and thighs are simply too large.
All she sees is ugly,
Not good enough to look at.
She wishes she was invisible,
But she puts on a brave face.
Her mask only cracking at a compliment.
Her eyes squint,
Her nose scrunches,
And she takes that small piece of gold,
Crushing it into dust.
She secretly wonders,
How someone could love her,
When she can’t even love herself.