Copy Paste

I want to be like everyone else—a carbon copy of those pretty, smiling girls

That always look flawless.

That always have perfectly aligned teeth.

Copy, paste. Copy. Copy.

Perfectly straight hair that falls over perfectly narrow shoulders down to a perfectly straight spine and—

Straight

Straight

Straight

Copy. Paste.

Rosy red lips and rosy red cheeks over perfectly pale skin—like a porcelain doll in the winter behind a frosted glass—

Perfect.

Pale.

Rosy.

Copy. Paste. Paste.

Girls thin enough to squeeze through the crack in society that leads to perfection—their thighs don’t get caught on the walls.

Girls with enough curves to make a grown man moan and writhe beneath her and enough breasts to feel his breath against her pert nipples and a smooth enough back to feel his hands run down her spine.

Calloused.

Pert.

Curves.

Copy. Copy god please copy.

Girls with full brows (but not bushy) and girls who can recite their Bible verses in one breath with perfect pitch and smiles and eyes and everything else

That could possibly

Be perfect

Why can’t I

Be like

Them

Perfect and

Perfect and

Perfect