Gracia Ioka

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Gracia Ioka

She was just as her name suggests, graceful, poise and well, gentle. The cruel kind of gentle. The kind of gentle that stabbed you right your gut with the same knife you used to carve your names in a tree.

She was the kind you'd meet in the bathrooms, fixing her lip gloss, kissing the mirror. The kind who'd sweetly ask you to drop a few pounds. And you thought, wow she's terrible.

But you mustn't have noticed the way she looks at herself in shop windows while passing by. You mustn't have noticed the eight meals she's skipped last week. You mustn't have noticed her ribs poking out of her bra.

And of course, how could you notice her father beating her into being a 'perfect' girl. How could you notice that since she was an infant, she was taught that perfect meant skinny legs and collarbones? How could you notice that she thought anything plumper than a size two was ugly?

But boy, it's a wonder you didn't notice because she's never hid the fact that she thinks you're absolutely revolting.

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