The Domiciles Project



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All I know in life is I'm standing in a hallway of doors. When I open a door, a beautifully ugly girl is throwing up. Her eyeliner is smudged and her lipstick is faded. The feeling of ice crawls over her grey and pale skin.
Then when I open the next door there they are. Their delicate and dazzling bodies gawk at me. They are children's toys, with long legs and arms like toothpicks. Their faces are beautiful and their eyes sparkle. Delight fills their faces like they don't have a care in the world. Their perfection is my downfall. Their name is Barbie and they have corroded my sense of life. They may be weak because anorexia is my creed, and they laugh when I tell them to stop.
The next door is made of mirrors. The mirrors make me feel like a fool and I find myself looking at my flaws, the only thing I see. This is one of my least favorite rooms but I find it addictive. I can't stop staring at my hideous body.
This hallway made me realize my whole restrained existence is one great painful lie, because if people knew about these doors then they would think differently of me. You'd think I would be sick of telling everyone, "I'm fine," but it has only become my norm. Can no one see the smile I'm faking? They leave me to deal with anguish alone. They just can't see how I've pulled down my sleeves to keep life's true horror at bay.
But yes, this hallway is merely my home, a place I live in, not visit. Reality is far, far away. All I know is pain, but the pain is internal. I am sick and twisted on the inside. The only way to escape is to try and replace my internal pain with external.
But there is one door I have been meaning to open, and I'm not sure how to get in. It is locked shut with the bolts, but everyday I try and try again to open it. One day I will succeed. This door is called suicide.
English 10 The Domiciles Project

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