The Perfect Girls Are The Ones With The Most Heartbreaking Thoughts

I don’t know how to put this into words and possibly everything that I will write down on this piece of paper will be nothing more than just word vomit, but I want to at least try.

I don’t like it. I don’t like this.

There’s a barrier between me and the world I live in. I can’t be who I want to be because every single day I need to be what others want me to be. But, who do I want to be?

Not “perfect”.

What is perfect anyway?

Is it the right amount of filters on one Instagram post? Is it the follower count? Is it the calorie count? Is it the number of compliments you get in a day?

Does this make me perfect?

If so, I don’t want any of it.

I don’t know how to react when someone asks me what I eat in a day to maintain a body perfect for the gods. If I were to say the truth they would not believe me. If I were to say that I spent an hour eating as much food as possible to only throw it up to make my body like this will it still be perfect?

I don’t know what to say when someone asks me why I have so many followers. The truth would be that so many people care about me right? Because being perfect means people care. Right?

No.

So many people follow me because they like what they see. They don’t like me for me they like the pictures, the fantasy of a perfect life when they don’t even know my life.

There is a barrier between me and the perfect me the world sees. I can’t explain it and sometimes I don’t want to try because people don’t understand.

That one word puts me in a category of making no mistakes. Of doing nothing wrong. Of just being the public image of angelic when in reality I am nowhere near perfection.

I don’t know what to say to someone who asks me for advice because my mind gets incredibly dark with thoughts from the past I just end up nodding my head and smiling. But that just seems perfectly fine for them.

Perfection is an illusion. A cycle I cannot get out of.

It’s a downward spiral I can’t escape from.

If this is what being perfect is supposed to be—get me out of here.

Get me out.