Thin
Consequences.
You were noticed. You attracted attention. You made the money. Welcome to politics, dear girl, you are the face of the world.
Starved. Jutting. Malnourished. Silent, by force.
They noticed that you were noticed, for your bones. You attracted attention, with your eating disorder. You made the money, with your restrictive lifestyle. Welcome to politics dear girl, they said, you are now the face of the world.
And now the world is starved. Jutting. Malnourished. Copying through free will.
They envy you. They ache to be you. They suffer, they burn, and they are hospitalised and never released, because they need to be you. Thin. They need to be Thin.
Thin is in. Thin is beautiful. Thin is to die for. You must not die from your disease, because you are the one who makes them the money to keep us all this way.
No one could ever take your place – your job is your life, and your job is permanent until you waste away for good. Or for worse. You made this world, and now you must live with the consequences of being in pain. Now, live. Breathe, but mask your pain. Beauty is glamour, after all. But you cannot help but let it show on occasion. Yes, that’s it! That’s perfect! What a fantastic angle, fabulous expression, amazing use of limbs! Honey, you’re an artist! You can shape the fashion polaroids with your fingers, let your hunger burn in your eyes, and strike a command with your face. Starve! Exercise! Be the new beautiful!
It drives them crazy, how much they long to be you.
You are a model. Just a model. But you are protected, sacred, the best in the business. You are immortal. You are silenced, but you should be listened to.
You want help, but you know that none will ever be offered to you. You’re on your own. They’re not sorry. You’re the moneymaker. You should want this. You’re rolling in the fame they created for you, with no escape route, no loopholes to set you free. You don’t want the world to be Thin, because they don’t know what it means to be Thin. They’re simply following a trend, a law, and they’re quite happy to do so. They don’t know the misery, although they think it’s cool to pretend they do.
You want to laugh in their faces. They know nothing, absolutely nothing, of being Thin. Thin is impossible. It is not easy to reach out and embrace Ana, or Mia – they are too far away. You have to work to reach them, work hard. You have to pump your body dry of muscle, scar your joints from too much exercise, be able to count your ribs as opposed to your fingers, and die inside to reach them. Simply starving when the opportunity arises will get you nowhere. Thin means being lighter than a feather, but yet still fading away, wisp by wisp, until only the memory of your final weight is remembered, in Autumn storms. Thin has no mass.
Thin is non-matter.
So, they look up to you because they are stupid, because their government didn’t do their research. You are good enough for them, for the present, and so you shall stay. And you shall suffer. You will be forced to hold your tongue until they pay for your coffin, but you have never been the best person to keep your anger, your needs, and your pain all to yourself. That’s why Xanga is there, but you don’t want to think about Xanga now. You want to think of a solution, other than suicide.
You do not care any longer. This life is as much a pointless existence as a life can become, so you do not fear death. You just don’t have the correct person to provide you with the means to go about it. You will have to deal with your depression for now. Things could get better, the world could change once more, but you doubt all of this. You do, but you want to believe that it will happen.
You hide from your face. You cover mirrors you pass with drapes, because you know that you will never recognise yourself again. You are so sick of changing for these people. Your pain shows in every inch of your body. Your joints ache when moving, and when being still, and the area around your clavicles hurts dreadfully after exercise. You are always on the brink of having a headache, caused by dehydration, as you do not drink enough fluids to keep you going. The pain never leaves you, never dies out completely, but smoulders, waiting for a sign to flare again.
They worship you. In many cases you have taken the place of all the celebrities, drugs, music, and often God. They crave your pictures, your artistic outlet, a glimpse of you on the news for no other reason than to state where you are at present. You try not to look at them, to become involved with them in any way. It hurts you to see them so wasted, so washed out. It is not only physical pain that you suffer. They are all so very alike, so much the same. A thronging mass of copiers, of obssessors, and of the walking dead. You do not like to look at them, because they almost remind you of yourself.
You will converse with no one. You must be burdened with your looks, your shame of being Thin, the consequences of your bones, and your lies. You told them you wanted this. You told them you were ready to motivate the world to be Thin. And you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Your shoulders hold the world, and if your knees weaken and snap, everyone, and everything, will fall down on top of you.
You have never made a demand of anybody but yourself. These could be miniature demands that could make you happy for the shortest while, or the more serious like “stop eating” which would keep you in your career.
You have but one last ultimatum to deliver to yourself.
Live, before this kills you.
Starved. Jutting. Malnourished. Silent, by force.
They noticed that you were noticed, for your bones. You attracted attention, with your eating disorder. You made the money, with your restrictive lifestyle. Welcome to politics dear girl, they said, you are now the face of the world.
And now the world is starved. Jutting. Malnourished. Copying through free will.
They envy you. They ache to be you. They suffer, they burn, and they are hospitalised and never released, because they need to be you. Thin. They need to be Thin.
Thin is in. Thin is beautiful. Thin is to die for. You must not die from your disease, because you are the one who makes them the money to keep us all this way.
No one could ever take your place – your job is your life, and your job is permanent until you waste away for good. Or for worse. You made this world, and now you must live with the consequences of being in pain. Now, live. Breathe, but mask your pain. Beauty is glamour, after all. But you cannot help but let it show on occasion. Yes, that’s it! That’s perfect! What a fantastic angle, fabulous expression, amazing use of limbs! Honey, you’re an artist! You can shape the fashion polaroids with your fingers, let your hunger burn in your eyes, and strike a command with your face. Starve! Exercise! Be the new beautiful!
It drives them crazy, how much they long to be you.
You are a model. Just a model. But you are protected, sacred, the best in the business. You are immortal. You are silenced, but you should be listened to.
You want help, but you know that none will ever be offered to you. You’re on your own. They’re not sorry. You’re the moneymaker. You should want this. You’re rolling in the fame they created for you, with no escape route, no loopholes to set you free. You don’t want the world to be Thin, because they don’t know what it means to be Thin. They’re simply following a trend, a law, and they’re quite happy to do so. They don’t know the misery, although they think it’s cool to pretend they do.
You want to laugh in their faces. They know nothing, absolutely nothing, of being Thin. Thin is impossible. It is not easy to reach out and embrace Ana, or Mia – they are too far away. You have to work to reach them, work hard. You have to pump your body dry of muscle, scar your joints from too much exercise, be able to count your ribs as opposed to your fingers, and die inside to reach them. Simply starving when the opportunity arises will get you nowhere. Thin means being lighter than a feather, but yet still fading away, wisp by wisp, until only the memory of your final weight is remembered, in Autumn storms. Thin has no mass.
Thin is non-matter.
So, they look up to you because they are stupid, because their government didn’t do their research. You are good enough for them, for the present, and so you shall stay. And you shall suffer. You will be forced to hold your tongue until they pay for your coffin, but you have never been the best person to keep your anger, your needs, and your pain all to yourself. That’s why Xanga is there, but you don’t want to think about Xanga now. You want to think of a solution, other than suicide.
You do not care any longer. This life is as much a pointless existence as a life can become, so you do not fear death. You just don’t have the correct person to provide you with the means to go about it. You will have to deal with your depression for now. Things could get better, the world could change once more, but you doubt all of this. You do, but you want to believe that it will happen.
You hide from your face. You cover mirrors you pass with drapes, because you know that you will never recognise yourself again. You are so sick of changing for these people. Your pain shows in every inch of your body. Your joints ache when moving, and when being still, and the area around your clavicles hurts dreadfully after exercise. You are always on the brink of having a headache, caused by dehydration, as you do not drink enough fluids to keep you going. The pain never leaves you, never dies out completely, but smoulders, waiting for a sign to flare again.
They worship you. In many cases you have taken the place of all the celebrities, drugs, music, and often God. They crave your pictures, your artistic outlet, a glimpse of you on the news for no other reason than to state where you are at present. You try not to look at them, to become involved with them in any way. It hurts you to see them so wasted, so washed out. It is not only physical pain that you suffer. They are all so very alike, so much the same. A thronging mass of copiers, of obssessors, and of the walking dead. You do not like to look at them, because they almost remind you of yourself.
You will converse with no one. You must be burdened with your looks, your shame of being Thin, the consequences of your bones, and your lies. You told them you wanted this. You told them you were ready to motivate the world to be Thin. And you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Your shoulders hold the world, and if your knees weaken and snap, everyone, and everything, will fall down on top of you.
You have never made a demand of anybody but yourself. These could be miniature demands that could make you happy for the shortest while, or the more serious like “stop eating” which would keep you in your career.
You have but one last ultimatum to deliver to yourself.
Live, before this kills you.