through feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings.
and here she u...
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crafted with the most exquisite of features, the most flawless of skin, and dolled up with the prettiest of dresses; here i dreadfully stood.
once the blinds of the glass windows flutter open was the moment where i metamorphose myself into the perfection i was built for, the sunlights emitting from the sun itself bringing a burning spotlight into my entity. there, i was showed off to all eyes of scrutiny, standing with fancy elegance and courtly posture as every passerbys walked pass me. some would stop and stare, murmuring words of adoration and desire of being as perfect as what i am.
oh, dear, you shouldn't wish for something so torturous.
however, creatures like human beings were made with the formula of endless greed. and so, a certain creature opened the door, the euphonious chimes ringing loudly in my ears as she entered with an auspicious smile etched on her lips. i have heard someone talking with cheeriness, eventually leading close to where i was displayed and mercilessly removed all the fabrics of clothings i was clad in.
and right now, i am naked.
and i felt free.
the unwavering vision of mine caught the woman who wished for perfection inside the pretty little dress, everyone hollering around her, praising her beauty but with eyes waiting for a fault to scrutinize.
and as i was being transfigured into another persona of seamlessness, our eyes met into an encounter of a perfect smile yet lethargic, dreary eyes.
you wished for perfection, there it is.
dearest, you are trapped inside a delusion of a picture-perfect creature i was once in. it was only a disguise made to pleasure the eyes of insignificant beings born to make your life more miserable than it already is—whose definition of perfect comes with turning into a mannequin stripped off of what defines your existence, and made to be an image for passerbys to see.
i was, and still am, a mannequin of grandiosity, a symbol of perfection, yet was only covered with clothes, hiding the faults of a tortured soul beneath the surface of a fabric that makes me feel more naked than being naked itself.
