These little cut-out dolls are paper thin
holding hands and smiling with saccharine grins
the bodies outlined in perforations
show societal size limitations
fresh new paper cuts mark red dotted lines
across my skin that I explain with lies
I tell myself, there's nothing wrong with me
there's nothing wrong with the search for beauty
but if i were natural, or noble
then maybe i would feel much more hopeful
for it's this disease that makes my mind sick
always contemplating my flesh, too thick
I want to slice off all of these layers.
The cold mirror is my mind's betrayer.
I want to be flat, as thin as paper
my rusted razor blade helps me taper
this body to be slim, airy and light
I know the stars are brighter on cold nights.
