You are almost beautiful. That kills you; the almost. It slides down the mirror late at night and launches itself onto your skin. Festers there like an unseen infection that heats you up and leaves you less than you were before. It’s a curse; the almost. Pretty but not beautiful. Lovely but not stunning. Attractive but not breathtaking. Breathtaking is the summit you covet. The climb is beyond you. You flounder, betrayed by your birth on the foothills of mediocrity.
You continue to struggle, despite the ridiculousness of it. This is all you’ve ever been encouraged to do. A pluck here, a tweak there, becomes a lift and a slice. And before you know it you are getting parts of yourself liquefied and sucked out of you. They ooze down a hose into a bucket on the floor and someone throws them out with the slops from the cafeteria. When you leave the hospital with your newly sutured equatorial line, you walk past giant waste bins without realising they contain your DNA. You don’t look back but you’re afraid to look forward because suddenly you’ve forgotten who you are.