Dear Society

March 26, 2018
By , Port Saint Lucie, FL

Dear Society,


This is it. My final plea. My call for mercy from your ruthless glare. It is a call for help for you to ignore, a white flag of surrender. You finally win this twisted game you enticed me into playing. I am going to tell you what you've done to me, how you've broken me, and you will finally listen.


You have murdered my originality and buried the evidence under my Twitter feed. You have carved my thoughts with the daggers of your judgmental eyes. You've poisoned my thoughts with the comments on my latest selfie. Your forever-changing standards are too difficult to keep up with. They have melted my self-worth into a pile of dust to be swept away by my bad habit of checking the scale too often. My happiness has become the fuel to the raging fire that you are. Your flames have digested every last bit of my will to live, and now there is nothing left of me to burn. I've become dead weight- no use to you. I cover up the fact that I am slowly dying with make-up and Snapchat filters. I smile for the camera but never for myself. I've lost my motivation to the slowly declining amount of likes on my page. You are the shackles holding me down as I drown in the notifications and insecurities. I shop with only you in mind, live with only you in mind, eat with only you in mind.


Eat. The word alone makes my muscles ache with hunger as I stare in the mirror. You've forced me to skip too many meals in an effort to make myself thin, and now my brittle bones look like they could snap in your hands. The flat stomach you made me crave more than food is long gone- it's so empty that it's become concave. My ribs are visible through my shirt and my hip bones jut out like knives. You've sculpted me into a starving soldier, fighting for your cause, but I quit. I'm finally relenting, wondering why it took losing the war for me to realize what you've done. Your words are a round of bullets that have mutilated my body beyond recognition.


The truth is, my thumbs are tired of typing. I'm tired of trying. The real tragedy is that only after my death will you preach about my beauty. You will mourn me, even though I've been gone for a long time and you've known it. Only once I die will you provide the validation I've been searching for so hopelessly. You've taught me to yearn for what I can only achieve through my own demise. I wish I could make you feel the pain I've felt since I first stumbled into your trap. In my final words, all I ask is that you don’t delete my Instagram.

 

- Your most recent victim
 






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