The sickness of beauty

There are some days,
Days when I long, yearn, to be his.
To remake my skin, my bones, my muscle
And be thin, with eyes piercing,
Juicy "kiss me", ruby red lips,
Hair like gold silk,
Framing my china doll face,
Gazelle legs, tanned and strong,
Dressed in skirt and low cut top,
To expose the perfection of my chest,
No marks, or scars, or hidden humiliation,
Just beauty, and brilliance oozing,
Seeping from my movements, my words, my being.
There are some days,
I long to be beautiful,
And wanted,
In every way that is sexual and intimate,
There are some days,
I dream of perfection,
The beauty that controls the world,
The sickness that it causes.
But those days are few and far between,
Because there are some days,
Most days,
When I must remind myself,
He is standing right beside me,
"You process a beauty all your own,
Perfection is boring,
This sickness is ugly,
Stop looking at those magazines,
They’ll poison your pretty little mind"