Imperfections are everywhere, except in her. She hated being imperfect. She was always the highest, highest, highest in everything. The perfect smarts, scores, habits, everything about her was perfect. But without her brain she would've been nothing. Everything was perfect to her, except for her outer beauty. She hated her figure and so did society, they both hated how rotund and chubby her body was so no one appreciated her. Her face too was full of imperfections everywhere, acne, scars, bruises and no makeup.
And so she discovered diets and makeup. She fell in love with the idea of being perfect so much that she left the desks in pursuit of true beauty, or so she thought. Waiting long lines for the best products, spending tens and hundreds on masks and food products and other things that would make her feel perfect. She was never satisfied with herself. Over time, her body had gone through a massive change and she was now thin, but still with just the right amount of muscles and fats on her. Subtle muscles made her look even more perfect and she started looking in the mirror more often with her makeup bag in front of her.
The white cream on her face dries up like wet paint on a cracked wall. It covered up her imperfections so well that she thought she was in a dream. A few pats on her skin revealed that the silky smoothness was reality. And yet she gets shamed for it? What's wrong with feeling pretty? She loved being pretty. Beauty was on the outside and inside and she only needed the outside half to complete her perfection. Or so she thought.
Still, paint on the walls will crack eventually and so was the case after a few nights out as she started chipping apart slowly. Her own greed and selfishness had come back to get revenge on herself. She was no longer recognizable to herself once people started flocking towards her in the hundreds. What could she say? She was living the life of popularity and now it came back to bite her ass. She started getting dark circles and yet her grades have remained the same. She was still smart and could ace her tests with ease but she also used her intelligence for the absolute wrong reasons; tricking others into giving her money for tiny little insignificant sexual favours that no one knew or cared about, selling off her worthless items with exuberant price tags, making herself seem like a goddess to others, but now her own complications have karma on their side.
Her followers slowly dwindled off from millions to mere hundred thousands. She'd become too perfect for her own good, the start of the fallen goddess had just begun. Photos became her diary entries and everyone resented her perfect perfections so they kept bringing her down, but why would a goddess care about that right? Nothing good really came out of being perfect except the assurance that she was perfect. People started exposing her personality, her looks, everything about her personal details till everyone else knew who she was, but why would a goddess care about that too? She was busy maintaining her epitome of perfect perfection and she loved herself for it. She loved it so much that her makeup bag kicked out her closest acquaintances and took their place instead.
Lipsticks as friends and foundations as family, mascaras as fame and eyeliners as fortune, blushers as besties and lotions as lovers, brushes as health and powders for wealth. That's how she saw them. They became her life. It's what I love so it's perfect, she defends her life because she depended on it, she needed it to live. Her drinks poisoned her insides and her kisses smudged her own image, her cracked makeup resulted in her covering herself up even more. A thick layer of makeup now acted as a stone mask to trap who she really was. Her soul was screaming to be let out but the jail bars refused to let go of her. She was the one reinforcing the rusty iron bars until they turned diamond after all.
The fall of a goddess, how disgraceful yet so gracefully she fell to the ground as her limp body hung out her window. Her Porsche became as dented as her ideals and she was the result of her actions. Bloody shards of glass tangled and intertwined with her flowing brown hair just like how her ideas of perfection had tainted her perfection in the first place. The poison and smudged reflection had done their jobs of deluding her to the point where she couldn't take it anymore and decided to become the ultimate epitome of perfection on her own.
Either she died being a perfect perfection of imperfection, or she lives long enough to become imperfect once more.
I think her choice was clear.
