What pains me is that I title myself a writer, yet I cannot detail you; your elegance is beyond words. I watch you suffer, bleed and fight someone I do not see; someone you believe to be real, to be there every time you examine your reflection. It hurts because when I'm with you, I want to show you the truth - the reality of how gorgeous of a human you are. However, language fails me, just as this society has failed you. How can anyone stand a chance of living content in a world cultivating unrealistic ideas and standards towards how they should manage their appearance?
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