The Price Of Beauty

The price of beauty



The skeleton visits her in her dreams, strung out on coffee and laxatives. Far from its backbone, cheeks protrude; sick with superficial desire. She is there when morning arrives, a never ending dream of withering self esteem and lack of hope. How did she get to this place?



An everlasting dialogue plays through her mind, ‘you’re disgusting’, ‘you don’t deserve to eat’. A summoning mirror glares from across the emptiness. She approaches it. Delusions of the anorexic mind - ‘hello dear, my how you’ve grown’ - and I mean grown’.

'Smash!' Connecting with the mirror, blood spills from her limp hand. Down it descends, carpet defiled, emotions deadened, a relief of numbness. Her addiction. Only she knows the effects of this place; isolated, solitary she confronts them. Nobody knows but her.



Disillusioned thoughts of redundant weight, a gelatinous blanket of fat encasing bones; once healthy, a protective cover of skin now too much, wrinkled, yellow. Fine hairs flourish over her new body; brittle nails scratch at thinning hair whilst her soul bleeds desperate for freedom. Bones jut out behind porcelain skin, portraying the ideal image seen in the carnival mirror of her mind. Dull eyes kept promises – gone now; missed opportunities sit in dark circles under them. Heavy lies to loved ones posed in the appearing wrinkles on her forehead – her sunken face no longer fits the skin she was provided. Who is she in this place? Where is she in this place? How did she get here?



Vacant eyes stare into the broken mirror, an empty soul stares back; transparent, modified. This place she once dreamed of being, now a reality, is not what she imagined. “Not skinny enough, not tall enough, not pretty enough”. Mumbled words pass through trembling lips as weakened hands cling to her corset strings. Tighter, tighter, pull tighter. Beckoning her; a blood smeared razor blade, she picks it up without thought. Cutting through the vein covered skin of her wrist, she bleeds; completely surrendered to the sentiment of the blade, this pain will never be rid of. Red the bed soaks, shed blood once inhabiting liveliness, now a painful memory of what used to be. Too deep are the carvings her wrists now savour; a sensation of joy is released within – nobody knows but her.