Monster in my Closet

That girl is beautiful, they say, her hips, legs, thighs
All packaged in a tan thin skin, hair bleached blonde.
She is what she is, the product of devotion.
She desired the thin thighs, a stomach that was wrinkled with lines because she can't stand having a roll.
So much that she read the calorie lines.
The magazines cinched her in and pulled her tight,
her ribs cracked with a lifestyle that told her that despite biology she could reach beauty beyond belief.
Doctor, doctor, please change what God gave me, please pump up my chest, please help my nose stick out a little less. I am not content with what I see, I feel like my own worst enemy.
That's what I see, the doctored image of a woman.
She's there every day in my closet, ribs poking out, tanned to perfection, lips hungry for attention.
And she stares at me. Watches me in all of my moments of imperfection.
A single roll above her panty line would make her less athletic.
That's what men desire "athletic" a kinder word for skinny.

Here I sit writing another stanza of angry poetry.
Because some ignorant male hungry for perfection degraded a  "real woman"
Whose hips were larger than her lips.
Who could carry a baby without worrying about compromising her body.
And this, this beast in my closet breaths heavy down my neck telling me
I'm imperfect.
And I with my gall believe her, I mimick her movements, praying that one day I'll end up looking just like her.
But like broken glass and all those beautiful devices and partaking of each little vice
I end up sliced on the floor...twisted up, lagging, and gagging on the "perfection" I'm being driven towards.

And everyday it's a constant struggle with the beast in my closet.
So before you let your tongue slip
Get a grip, because I never want to be that monster in my closet.
Starved for acceptance and perfection that is absolutely unttainable.