She ties her hair with trembling grace, a steady mask across her face. The mirror hums—a silver stage, her hands become both knife and rage. She says, “Let’s start, you disobedient skin, you stretch too wide, you never stay thin. You hide my veins like whispered lies, you blush when stared at, swell, and rise.” Her hands descend, precise, controlled, her voice, a hymn both cruel and cold. She peels what she deems too much to keep— “Perfection’s price is skin-deep sleep.” She sighs and finds her quivering lungs, “Always gasping songs unsung. You fill too fast, you never stay small, you breathe for me—but not for all.” Her ribs she mocks for sticking wide, “Crooked fence I cannot hide.” And pries them open, tender, neat— “Beauty demands a tighter seat.” Her stomach trembles as she jeers, “You never listen through the years. You twist, you ache, you love excess, you make me mortal, make me less.” And deeper still her fingers stray, “Let’s fix the thing that won’t obey.” Her heart beats hard—defiant, red. “You always loved where love misled. Too soft, too loud, too quick to trust, you pulse with hope when hope is dust.” She lifts it, frowning at the sound— “Quiet, now. You’re much too proud.” And in her hands, that rhythm dies— the mirror blinks with glassy eyes. She never sees the color fade, too focused on the shape she made. Her beauty gleams—a hollow art, the kind that asks to trade a heart. And as she falls, she softly smiles, her body neat in death’s own files. For all her cuts and all her care, she’s perfect now— and never there.