That feeling of illness a fog in your intestines.
Twisting your face in the mirror.
Where you see the scars, blemishes, and all the hairs you missed with the razor.
Brilliant pools of self-loathing reflected in the blood shed by blades on skin.
Perfection sought hand-in-hand with infection.
Stretch and scrape yourself back into the container.
Unfortunately shaped and mechanically awkward.
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