Statistic

So you think you've got problems.

You hide it well, I'll tell you that. Put a smile on that face like you put on designer jeans; strut the halls like you own the world and everything in it; confidence sky-high on that dance floor--

Six feet under when you look in the mirror.

Are you pretty? No, not pretty enough. Are you as shallow as your sunken cheeks and empty eyes? No, not shallow enough.

So what do you do about it?

Binge on every dream you can't have, purge the weight of your condition, flush it all away, and reapply makeup to hide the aftermath. Now, aren't you beautiful? With bones protruding like knives and a scar on your starving heart, aren't you just so beautiful?

No. Never beautiful enough.

But isn't that the majority? We're all so caught up in our own personal tragedies that we don't realize all we've done is dug out our own graves and laid ourselves to rest in pieces with our broken insecurities.

Who's beautiful when the whole world's trying to be beautiful?

You hide it well, but I know the truth.

How does it feel to be a walking statistic?