(no subject)
Borderline Perfection
Heel. Toe. Strut. Heel. Toe. Strut. She slinked down the catwalk. Cool. Calm. Collected. Condescending. Pause. Pose. Pretend. Pretty. She turned back and floated down the narrow platform of shallow thoughts and insecurity. So beautiful. So pretty. You could see her his bones through the transparent, shimmering shirt. Her his ribs, exposed, bare, naked, beautifulohsobeautiful. She lifted the remote and turned the television off without looking. She could not tear her his eyes away from the screen. She looked down at her himself, and frowned. No. Not pretty. Not like the models on tv. Never pretty enough. My breasts biceps aren’t big enough. You cannot see my ribs hiding beneath all this horrible, disgusting fat. All the other girls guys people tease me. They are all so beautiful and I am not.
She turns towards the window, glancing out over the tops of buildings at the tiny (beautiful) people walking past. Each more perfect than the last, and her him less perfect than them all. How did they all get to be so thin? She blamed it on a lack of self-control that she weighed so much. They told him they were deluded, they were crazy, they were all so fucking perfect. She moved to her his feet; tiny, soundless steps thundering up the corridor. The shuddering squeak of fat. She looks up from behind the counter.
“You should be in bed. You’re ill.”
“No, I’m not”, she refutes. A frown is the only reply.
“Is you machine empty? It may need refilling shortly…”
“NO! I’m fine!” She yells. The tube scratches the back of her his sore throat; the cold feeling of enforced fat.
Borderline perfection.
“I’ll have the doctor come down to see you. Go back to bed.”
She glares and turns, the echoing creaks following back to her his room, a naso-gastric tube tape limply to her his face.
Heel. Toe. Strut.
Heel. Toe. Strut. Heel. Toe. Strut. She slinked down the catwalk. Cool. Calm. Collected. Condescending. Pause. Pose. Pretend. Pretty. She turned back and floated down the narrow platform of shallow thoughts and insecurity. So beautiful. So pretty. You could see her his bones through the transparent, shimmering shirt. Her his ribs, exposed, bare, naked, beautifulohsobeautiful. She lifted the remote and turned the television off without looking. She could not tear her his eyes away from the screen. She looked down at her himself, and frowned. No. Not pretty. Not like the models on tv. Never pretty enough. My breasts biceps aren’t big enough. You cannot see my ribs hiding beneath all this horrible, disgusting fat. All the other girls guys people tease me. They are all so beautiful and I am not.
She turns towards the window, glancing out over the tops of buildings at the tiny (beautiful) people walking past. Each more perfect than the last, and her him less perfect than them all. How did they all get to be so thin? She blamed it on a lack of self-control that she weighed so much. They told him they were deluded, they were crazy, they were all so fucking perfect. She moved to her his feet; tiny, soundless steps thundering up the corridor. The shuddering squeak of fat. She looks up from behind the counter.
“You should be in bed. You’re ill.”
“No, I’m not”, she refutes. A frown is the only reply.
“Is you machine empty? It may need refilling shortly…”
“NO! I’m fine!” She yells. The tube scratches the back of her his sore throat; the cold feeling of enforced fat.
Borderline perfection.
“I’ll have the doctor come down to see you. Go back to bed.”
She glares and turns, the echoing creaks following back to her his room, a naso-gastric tube tape limply to her his face.
Heel. Toe. Strut.