Little Miss Perfect.

Little miss perfect.

Someone get her a ribbon.

She well damn deserves it- with all that she’s given.

She runs a mile, when she’s too weak to walk.

She can’t scream for help; she too gone to talk.

“I’ll eat when I'm perfect” she chose to decide,

as she uses a fork to push her food to the side.

“I’m fine” she sighed,

she clarified,

all of the accusations she denied,

Her ribs stick out,

“The pain with subside,"

“I’m not perfect yet”

She’s hardly alive.

she said it’s okay,

turns out she lied.

Little miss perfect, that’s who she’ll be;

with her bruises running from her thigh to her knee.

The numbers define her-

She has nothing left.

It’s the perfect’s effect-

To leave her bereft.

She’s trapped now.

There’s no going back,

She’ll keep on running ’till her vision goes black.

"I’ll be perfect.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

She's going to get there...

...but what will she forfeit?

She’s trapped now:

In her perfect prison.

For the love of god-

Someone get her a ribbon.