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No one can Hear, if there is No Cry for Help
I wanted to be a supermodel.
Who doesn’t, really?
I wanted to be gorgeous.
I was frightening
I was every rib defined, stomach swooping just under the upside-down ‘U’ of my rib cage.
I was elbows and knees thicker than upper arms and legs; wrists and ankles thicker than calves and fore-arms.
I was perpetual hunger, emerging like an old friend when the smell of food gave me the dry-heaves.
I was hip bones straining against skin, sharp.
I was cheekbones defined, dark circles against pallid skin, eyes sunken and hungry and searching, with hollow cheeks, shadows crawling from the precipice that was my lower jaw against my neck.
I was a spinal column erupting, each bony knob crying out in pain as it begged for escape.
I didn’t want to be slim and trim.
I didn’t want to be skinny
I wanted to be skeletor;
Frightening
And dead.
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