https://i.imgur.com/43ZNUOY.jpg
Call it what you will.
Torture.
Ritual.
Self-sacrifice.
It's cost is paid in sweat, blood and deprivation.
It is the burden of perfection defined by an intangible society born by those daring to be in the public eye. It's superficial, material, and yet crucial to those who crave the status of glitz and glammour, even when false.
So you endure the drag of blades across your skin a whisper away from biting into flesh. A little too much pressure and suddenly there is a splash of blood in the water. Barbaric. You rip hair from your eyebrows, slather on bleach, douse your hair in chemicals, because what you were born with isn't quite right.
It's hours spent in the gym lifting and straining every muscle so there isn't a single spot that jiggles in an unattractive way. Knowing exactly how many calories in that cup of frozen grapes you ate instead of breaking down and stuffing a cheeseburger in your face. You're the person Skinny Girl vodka was invented for, because god forbid you give up your Saturday night Cosmos at the club.
You know every plane on your face. The way your left cheekbone tapers just slightly different than your right and the fine hand it takes to fake perfect symmetry. One eye slightly higher than the other" Normal" Maybe, but there's a trick for that, too. Should that contour palette be unable to sculpt away structural flaws, there's always the slice of a scalpel. But makeup can veil most flaws at least at a distance, at least for the shutter snap of an iPhone camera.
At the end of it all you're finally wrapped in threads so you can be presented to an invisible audience that cannot possibly see through your Maybe She's Born With It armor. Clad in more faux than a fur wrap against the terror that isn't just fitting in—but standing out in a sea of other stand outs.
There is no point to it all. It's needless, self-serving, desperate cries to look at me.
I love it. If I turn even one head walking down the street I have justified the time, the money, the effort that I have put into crafting me. Good attention, bad attention, I crave it all.
So go ahead and look. Stare. Glare. Whatever. I know you're looking.
But you'll never see the real me.
Polyvore inspiration
Call it what you will.
Torture.
Ritual.
Self-sacrifice.
It's cost is paid in sweat, blood and deprivation.
It is the burden of perfection defined by an intangible society born by those daring to be in the public eye. It's superficial, material, and yet crucial to those who crave the status of glitz and glammour, even when false.
So you endure the drag of blades across your skin a whisper away from biting into flesh. A little too much pressure and suddenly there is a splash of blood in the water. Barbaric. You rip hair from your eyebrows, slather on bleach, douse your hair in chemicals, because what you were born with isn't quite right.
It's hours spent in the gym lifting and straining every muscle so there isn't a single spot that jiggles in an unattractive way. Knowing exactly how many calories in that cup of frozen grapes you ate instead of breaking down and stuffing a cheeseburger in your face. You're the person Skinny Girl vodka was invented for, because god forbid you give up your Saturday night Cosmos at the club.
You know every plane on your face. The way your left cheekbone tapers just slightly different than your right and the fine hand it takes to fake perfect symmetry. One eye slightly higher than the other" Normal" Maybe, but there's a trick for that, too. Should that contour palette be unable to sculpt away structural flaws, there's always the slice of a scalpel. But makeup can veil most flaws at least at a distance, at least for the shutter snap of an iPhone camera.
At the end of it all you're finally wrapped in threads so you can be presented to an invisible audience that cannot possibly see through your Maybe She's Born With It armor. Clad in more faux than a fur wrap against the terror that isn't just fitting in—but standing out in a sea of other stand outs.
There is no point to it all. It's needless, self-serving, desperate cries to look at me.
I love it. If I turn even one head walking down the street I have justified the time, the money, the effort that I have put into crafting me. Good attention, bad attention, I crave it all.
So go ahead and look. Stare. Glare. Whatever. I know you're looking.
But you'll never see the real me.
Polyvore inspiration