Imperfect

I starve myself all day and then go on Ritz binges at midnight.
I go to tanning beds year round inticing the cancerous rays into my body.
I wear six pounds of make-up. Constantly trying new things, sparkles, blush, foundation, mixing, matching creams.
I am severly anguished when these chemicals clog my pores.
All of my clothes are ugly. Perfectly suitable but ugly.
I need to go shopping.
I just went last week.
No matter, I need new clothes, more clothes, better clothes.
I weigh 115lbs.
Sometimes.
Sometimes I weigh 120 lbs. I hate myself. Why did I eat those Ritz?
Sometimes I weigh 109 lbs. I love myself. But I am OH so hungry.
I feel sick. I should probably eat.
I wear contacts to avoid glasses. They hurt my eyes, dry them out.
I wear glasses. I am being smart and avoiding my eyes being dry. I am ugly. I am putrid. I'd rather have dry eyes.
I'm too short. I wear heels. They hurt my feet. I suffer willingly.

You ask why.
You ask why do I torture myself the way I do?
You ask me this as you stare at the bikini clad teenager walking down the street.
You ask why I trouble myself with contacts, as you stare into the depths of my eyes, which only now you can see clearly.
You ask why I wear make-up, but flirt with me when I do.
You ask why we make love with the lights turned off after we have watched a movie, with stick-thin models showing off massive breasts.
You ask why.

And I wonder why you don't already know.