Thin
Diseased.
We are diseased, together. I am afraid that I have corrupted you all. Alone, I stand in front of you, daring not to do as I wish. What I wish is something that I can only think, because I know that the world would reject my words and cancel me through disgust if they were to see them written down. I want to fly, soar away from disease, and find myself a small haven, where I can be safe from this tsunami of depression. I wish not to be responsible for your unjoyful happiness. Your weight. What do you see, my Xanga girls, when you look in the mirror? Pain? Grief for your lost selves? I see all this and more. Much more. I must not reveal myself to you, in case I am recognised as the girl I no longer want to be.
I am sorry I infected you with all this, this disease.
Goodnight, Xanga. Wake up healthy.
Every word that you had written had stained the keyboard with truth serum. The words you had written dripped the feelings that you were refused to show to the world.
You are diseased. Anorexia, to you, is not merely just an illness anymore. It had been blown out of proportion, and now there are people out there, former friends and deliberately forgotten relatives, people who idolised you for your lack of figure, who were dying. Are dying. Dying from the disease you made popular. Dying from the disease that was thought to have originated from your brittle, brittle bones.
You turn away from the screen of the borrowed laptop, your eyes watery with wisps of salted tears that had yet to spill. Tears that had yet to ruin your pretty little face again. Bones crack lightly as you put your head in your hands, your spine rippling with sobs. You will never be able to show this could-be-post to Xanga. To the world. Because they would continue to drown in mirrored pools without your guidance – with another’s guidance, another that would be willing to die to get in the history books. To them, this is a fashion statement. To you, this is a way of life.
Slowly, you backspace until every last character disappears before your sea-stained eyes.
You will show no emotion. You will converse with no one. You brought this upon yourself. You will do this, alone.
Slowly, you mind conjures up the words safe enough to say:
Fuck you, Xanga.
No one knows you anymore. No one ever will. Your family stopped caring when you were showing them how to live their lives, and your friends abandoned you years ago when you refused their help. There was a time when you had wanted to be this way. You are both ashamed and proud of the fact that you are the one person in the world whom no one could talk to. Get through to. You are both ashamed and proud, but yet you can never be numb, emotionally or physically. You must suffer for what you have done for as long as you live. You diseased these people. You have made their lives worse than any hell ever could be.
You post these three safe words, and delete the history of the unfamiliar web browser you have been using. No one will catch you. You will win every time. You shut down the laptop, and slide it back into its case.
You suffer. You do. Your frown is etched heavily upon perfectly plucked eyebrows. A frown etched by self-abuse via mirrors. Self-abuse via exercise. Self-abuse via your own eyes. You walk more than you run these days. You pass the run-down areas of this so-called “cultural” city, leaving your finer self tucked away at home. Wherever home is. You would not be recognised in the place in which you grew up. You were not that girl anymore. You walk past dealers, murderers and rapists on a daily basis. You do not recognise people for who they are. The government has managed that much. You walk past gardens in which malnourished children sit, doubled over from the hunger pains that you have long since been immune to. You do not need to linger behind fences and hedges to notice that these children don’t even have the energy to play a simple game of hide-and-seek, a favourite of yours when you were younger. You pass people that you kill, who do not recognise you as the murderer you feel like.
Here, on the streets, they see you as another anorexic girl.
But you are so much more than a girl, stupidly driven by an eating disorder. You are so much more than a girl, stupidly following government orders. You are the past. You are the present. But worse still, you seem to be the future too.
Oh, how you wish you were wrong.
I am sorry I infected you with all this, this disease.
Goodnight, Xanga. Wake up healthy.
Every word that you had written had stained the keyboard with truth serum. The words you had written dripped the feelings that you were refused to show to the world.
You are diseased. Anorexia, to you, is not merely just an illness anymore. It had been blown out of proportion, and now there are people out there, former friends and deliberately forgotten relatives, people who idolised you for your lack of figure, who were dying. Are dying. Dying from the disease you made popular. Dying from the disease that was thought to have originated from your brittle, brittle bones.
You turn away from the screen of the borrowed laptop, your eyes watery with wisps of salted tears that had yet to spill. Tears that had yet to ruin your pretty little face again. Bones crack lightly as you put your head in your hands, your spine rippling with sobs. You will never be able to show this could-be-post to Xanga. To the world. Because they would continue to drown in mirrored pools without your guidance – with another’s guidance, another that would be willing to die to get in the history books. To them, this is a fashion statement. To you, this is a way of life.
Slowly, you backspace until every last character disappears before your sea-stained eyes.
You will show no emotion. You will converse with no one. You brought this upon yourself. You will do this, alone.
Slowly, you mind conjures up the words safe enough to say:
Fuck you, Xanga.
No one knows you anymore. No one ever will. Your family stopped caring when you were showing them how to live their lives, and your friends abandoned you years ago when you refused their help. There was a time when you had wanted to be this way. You are both ashamed and proud of the fact that you are the one person in the world whom no one could talk to. Get through to. You are both ashamed and proud, but yet you can never be numb, emotionally or physically. You must suffer for what you have done for as long as you live. You diseased these people. You have made their lives worse than any hell ever could be.
You post these three safe words, and delete the history of the unfamiliar web browser you have been using. No one will catch you. You will win every time. You shut down the laptop, and slide it back into its case.
You suffer. You do. Your frown is etched heavily upon perfectly plucked eyebrows. A frown etched by self-abuse via mirrors. Self-abuse via exercise. Self-abuse via your own eyes. You walk more than you run these days. You pass the run-down areas of this so-called “cultural” city, leaving your finer self tucked away at home. Wherever home is. You would not be recognised in the place in which you grew up. You were not that girl anymore. You walk past dealers, murderers and rapists on a daily basis. You do not recognise people for who they are. The government has managed that much. You walk past gardens in which malnourished children sit, doubled over from the hunger pains that you have long since been immune to. You do not need to linger behind fences and hedges to notice that these children don’t even have the energy to play a simple game of hide-and-seek, a favourite of yours when you were younger. You pass people that you kill, who do not recognise you as the murderer you feel like.
Here, on the streets, they see you as another anorexic girl.
But you are so much more than a girl, stupidly driven by an eating disorder. You are so much more than a girl, stupidly following government orders. You are the past. You are the present. But worse still, you seem to be the future too.
Oh, how you wish you were wrong.