It was always that simple.
To the world outside looks mattered.
Head buried in a book, the characters never cared if I was ugly or not,
the author never took my looks into mind and wrote his words against me.
Fantasy equalled freedom. In my own head I could be beautiful
even if it was only for a moment before reality tripped me across the pavement
with the boys yelling “fat bitch” out of a car window, and my only response
to give them a smile and one fingered salute while I died inside.
All I ever wanted was to be beautiful, because surely life
had to be better if I was beautiful.
Diet drama, anorexic models in magazines
Posh Spice and the new size-zero skeletal aspirations
I bought it all with my soul, and downed it with low-carb beer
caught up in the physical hype as though I was all body and no brain
while I lived inside all-night-book-fests swathed in cigarette smoke
choking on my insomnia and malnutrition, enamoured by my twig-like fingers
smoothing themselves absently across my abdominal bones.
In the dark hours it was easy to forget the shadows daylight would bring.
Dear Cosmo, tell me, how can I be beautiful?
Love yourself, on one page with an ad for diet pills on the next.
Designer clothes don’t go to that size…
Why does this mascara give me hooker eyes?
Excuse me while I go get lost in a book…
© Indie Adams 2012