When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself. Where dark curls should fall, sit two horrific horns. My once fair skin replaced with crimson, reptilian scales. And my warm brown eyes are but demonic yellow orbs. Something is wrong. I must be cursed. Diseased! Terrified, I open my mouth to scream when I realize something.

My body is perfect.

Exactly the way it’s supposed to look. The narrow hips my mother said would never impress a man, in the mirror, are the ideal width. My reflection curves exquisitely and the bulging stomach I berated and starved outside of the mirror is exactly the way my lover said it should be. My breasts don’t sag in the mirror — and they are identical in size. My legs are long and slender. Features my best friend always says are important. I am not too thin nor am I too full. I am perfect.

Perhaps I could tolerate the horns and the red scales…if only my body looked this way. I don’t think I’d miss my curls or my brown eyes if my breasts sat right and my stomach wasn’t lumpy under my clothes.

When I look in the mirror, my body is perfect.