Her expression cringes and cowers as she observes the way her own body twists and how her flesh piles at one point and stretches at another. The more I look at her, the prettier she gets, the farther my smile extends.
Next thing I know we’re both drowsy and yet our lips are in contact; it was the start of the butterflies in my stomach. Little did I know it was hard to get rid of these little insects inside of me.
The next morning would repeat, this time she’s switching through clothes desperate for fabric that would wrap around her body in a manner that will make her waist smaller, her thighs slimmer, her arms like sticks.
Even then, I’m trying my absolute best to pinpoint these flaws she keeps seeing. Somehow they increase in her eyes and yet, I can’t find a single one.
When the night is back, we’re on the floor, and as I grab onto her hips with our bodies dangerously close, I palm and scrutinize every bit of her bones and skin in an attempt to track one – just one – defect, just one single imperfection.
And for two weeks, I fail.
If she could look at herself through my eyes she’d never dare to judge her curves or edges ever again, she’d finally realize that every adjective I used when describing her beauty wasn’t out of pity.
And even now, two thousand four hundred sixty one point seven kilometers away, I remember the way her figure swayed majestically everywhere she went. It’s quite hard to believe there was no halo circling around her head.
The writer of this piece has requested to remain anonymous.