When she looks in the mirror,

she pouts, she turns, sticking her chest out further,

she wants to pull at the rolls of fat,

she wants to wipe the makeup away

or else just cry it all off.

She wants to mock herself,

talk about all the useless things she is,

she wants to give voice to the 

faceless feelings shouting in her head.

But she swipes on her red lipstick

and perfects her smokey eye, a fan favorite.

She gets another text, another guy

asking for a pic, and she doesn't hesitate to ask what kind.

She got off easy, he just wanted to see her

and she could nearly cry thinking that

he thought she was pretty, that he liked the whole of her

not just the bits and pieces that some guys liked.

He gets a look at the makeup and sends back

Going out tonight, slut? 

Slut, like its the kindest word he could come up with.

But then again maybe it is. 

She wonders if there's a quota of how often 

a girl could get called that. 

She hopes there is, because if she never heard it again

it would be far too soon.

But she just responds anyway

Yes, meeting up with friends.

Oh sure, right, slut, "friends."

Perhaps, she thinks, sluts shouldn't have friends.

Who would want to hang out with someone

half as disgusting as this girl in the mirror?

Lying little slut, you know you're going out to get what you need.

A kind, loving partner who would see through the mirror,

see that insecure girl, dying to please,

aching to be loved, to be needed for something other 

than to get him off.

She knew this man would stop texting the moment 

he was spent so she talked him through it.

He gave a sort of thank you, saying

Such a good little slut,

like she was some sort of animal 

being pat on the head for doing well.

She didn't feel very human anyways.