is there nothing that you're proud of?

you can stand in front of a mirror for hours. admiring 'a thing of beauty' - your lover might call you - which is non-other than yourself.
you're insecure because you're not sure how to take that somewhat catchy calling as a compliment or an insult.
you're a woman for pete's sake.
you'd tell yourself.
you're not an antique clock hangs exquisitely in a museum.
you'd add. it's funny how you relate the phrase 'a thing of beauty' with an antique clock in a museum. surely you have higher standards than that.
"ugh." you grunt. you huff and puff your bangs. i admit, you always have a lovely hair. it's not boring straight or awkwardly curled up too much. it's just right. your hair; the colour of cinnamon sugar - which is natural by the way - shines when it is illuminated. your skin, oh god, your beautiful delicate peach skin. *chuckle. peach, do people still call you peachy? you're not too pale or too tan. you're the colour of both sufficient sun and shades. your eyes have always had they're distinct glow. they'll glow and darken parallel to your emotions. and they change too often to keep tract. sometimes, you're too hard to figure out. your eyelashes have always been the highlights of your face. they're thick and dark even without the help of mascara. your face looks as if it was carved by the hands of God Himself. so carefully angled, perked and shaped. a little bit of freckles are scattered on it to give you that innocent look that suits you very well. you're stunning.

im still not sure what your native roots are. im sure you're not a pure caucasian. but i'll never figure it out because im a terrible guesser. i guess it's one of your bucket full of secret isn't it?
i always wonder why you sigh and mumble whenever you survey your reflection.
you'd pull your hair up when you're wearing it down. you'd pinch your cheeks and wiggle them. you'd try different smiles and pouts.
it's like you're still figuring out how to be, well, you.

it pains me to see you're throwing yourself like this. you hardly eat. but whenever you do, you'd put your finger down your throat and hunch over the toilet bowl. your gorgeous eyelashes are always wet with tears caused by the excruciating pain you put yourself into.
it hurts me to know that you find comfort in the fact that your skin is pressed against your bones without the presence of meat let alone fat. you've become so thin that im afraid people will crush and break you into pieces whenever they try to touch you.
above all, it saddens me to see you hold a sharp object against your wrist and cut yourself until you bleed and let the crimson liquid flows slowly down your forearm. you'd cry, but you wont stop. you'd feel the pain and you'd chant your magic words, "make me feel beautiful, make me feel beautiful." everynight. then, you'd fall asleep on the floor curl up into a ball as if protecting yourself from the boogeyman. the next morning you'd wake up and put on your make up to conceal your blacked eyes and your damaged wrist.

sometimes, i wish i could swoon down and take you by the arm. hold you tight. whisper to you that you are beautiful.
sometimes, i wish i could always stay by your side, help you heal from whatever made you like this.
sometimes, i wish i could make you tell me your secrets so that you dont have to lift the burden yourself.

but i cant. because im just your little stuffed bear. sitting on the upper shelf just being able to watch. neither can i move nor talk. i feel hopeless.

why cant you see yourself the way i do?
tell me my master, is there nothing that you're proud of?