You look into the mirror, eyes focusing on the irregular arch of the eyebrows, the nose that has always seemed too big, out of proportion to the rest of your heart-shaped face, and the lips that have never quite been big enough. And you think to yourself, "How could she ever love someone like me?" You look in the mirror, and staring back at you is an imperfect person, scarred – both physically and emotionally – damaged, hopelessly broken, the pieces of your soul scattered so far that there is no hope of them ever fully mending again. Trailing your eyes down from your face, you focus now on the neck, the shoulders and chest. Your collar bones stick out – some days they are far too noticeable, while others, they are nowhere near as predominant as they should be. Always either too much or too little, you've always been like that, and this time is no exception. Taking a step backwards, you suck in your stomach as far in as it will go, and you lift the corner of your ripped, black tank top to stare at your lower-abdominal region. Too fat. You have never been satisfied with this portion of your body, and you know that no matter what the weight, you never will be. Flawed. Damaged beyond any hope of repair. And as you look yourself in the eye, noting the flicker of misery and shame that passes through, you think to yourself, "how could she ever love someone like me?"

She glances at you from afar. She sees the way you examine yourself in the mirror, the disgust on your face as clear as an afternoon sky in the summer. It never ceases to amaze her, how you could look at the reflection and not see the beauty, the charm, the grace, that to her is so apparent. She will forever wonder, silently to herself, "how can she not love someone like herself?" She watches as you raise a hand to your nose, lazily tracing a path down to the curve of your lips, then stopping to rest in the center of your chest, certain that you must feel the pulsating of the beating heart beneath. She locks her gaze on the reflection in the mirror, eyes focusing on the unique curve of the eyebrow, the delicate arch that so beautifully frames your large, chocolate eyes. So different than anything she's seen before, and so lovely. Shaking her head clear, she notices your eyes drift downwards, resting on the ruby lips, turning ever so slightly at the corners, tugging the face downwards in a scowl of disgust. Oh, how she loves those lips. The blood-red lipstick you wear always seems to linger slightly on hers, and no matter how many times she washes, there is always a trace of scarlet left behind. She wouldn't want it any other way. And as she watches your reflection in the mirror turn sideways, the stomach instantly shrinking as you suck in your breath, she frowns, closing her eyes to battle the onslaught of tears, and thinks, "how can she not love someone like herself?"