I seen her looking in her mirror,
She was staring, glaring, inspecting
The face that looked back at her.
She was nit-picking at invisible spots,
Hoping her skin would be clearer.
She was pinching her button nose,
Wishing it looked like a model’s.
She would practice raising her eyes,
Thinking they were too low at her age.
She would redo her hair a million ways,
Even though it was perfect the first time.
I watched as she slowly moved down
Looking for more to scrutinise about herself.
She would suck in her stomach too much,
Then say she needed to lose some weight.
She would put on more fake tan,
Because she thought she was too pale.
She told me her thighs were too big
And how she wishes there were a gap.
Sometimes I wish she saw how I see her,
And that she wouldn’t look at models.
I wanted her to stop looking at magazines,
And celebrities with plastic surgery.
I wish I could tell her how perfect she was,
But I know she wouldn’t believe me.
I wish I could show her how pretty she was,
But she would rather listen to her conscience.
I’d speak up for once and tell her all this,
If I didn’t see myself in the exact same light.
If I told her how I felt about myself,
She would say there is nothing wrong with me.