I used to play with dolls
when I was younger.
I'd brush their long pretty hair,
put clothes on their wire thin bodies.
Their faces were just perfect,
their teeth nice and straight.
I would stay up at night and wonder what it was like
to be pretty.
Just like a Barbie Doll.
When I was younger,
I thought those thoughts were harmless,
it didn't faze me that it'd make my mind a turmoil.
When I grew older I started to think,
if I became pretty
just like the dolls I used to play with,
I'd be noticed?
I used to think that way for so long
that I started to believe it.
I grew my hair out long,
died it blond.
It was the weight loss that affected it all.
In the end I just wanted to lose it all.
I starved my self,
until I looked just right.
And in the eyes of the watchers,
they saw perfection,
but if you looked close enough you'd notice
the pain of trying to be pretty.
When I grew even older,
more mature,
my mind started to clear.
I thought of the ways I went,
the life I spent,
trying to be pretty.
I should have been outside,
discovering the unknown,
but no.
I was inside, looking in the mirror,
judging my size,
crying over my looks.
My unconsiderate friends thought of it as something that would due me good
but all in the end,
I became a depressed,
drinking,
skinny ass
Barbie Doll.
