Pretty

I saw a wedding dress at the thrift store, it was so pretty. It fit my slim figure perfectly, a size two, it made me feel pretty. I took it off, but my eyeliner smudged, so I fixed it because it makes my hazel eyes look pretty. I even want this poem to look pretty. The lines, my handwriting, structure. I also can't imagine not being pretty. I'd rather starve, and I do. It doesn't matter though, because my insides aren't pretty, but it's not my fault. I used to be pretty inside, I think. I used to be kind and sweet. It was silly. I'm like an apple that rotted at the core, I am pretty but that doesn't mean I'm not rotten. Don't bite me, go away. I wanted to be loved, I wanted to be worthy, I wanted to be more, but I'm not. All I am is pretty.