From hills to ponds on my frame,

That I have tried to smoothen.

I look on pinterest to find the hidden remedies others have dug.

Working like a slave to my own body trying to make it "better"

"Perfect".

Frustrated with the outcome I caress.

I try the bitter and gut wrenching apple cider,

That climbs up my throat like an insect but I swallow it back to the pits.

Eventually the pits take me too,

I punch my skull telling myself tar like lies.

A movie tape blurs my sight,

Waterworks too.

Perfect is non existent.

Tape measures cannot capture the ideal counts.

Hills to ponds, they are mine.