To Be Fabricated

June 17, 2012
By Anonymous

Nip, tuck, sip, crunch.
Eat this, don't eat this.
Look, don't touch.
5 miles, 6 miles, 7 miles a day.
Diet pills, liposuction, vomit away.

Hair up, hair down, put it in a braid.
Foundation, mascara, blush it all away.
Pluck, scrape, flick, tug.
Pouring all your sweat out onto your bathroom rug.

Bra, stuffed. Abs, suck it in.
They'll eat you alive if you're not stick thin.
125, 115, 100 pounds and still going.
Cheek bones, shoulder bones, rib bones.
All have to be showing.

The back of the toothbrush down your throat.
Heave, purge, retch it all out.
100, 90, 80.
Still going down.

Model, icon, fashion legend.
Society's computerized idea of fabricated beauty.
She's laying on the floor clutching her roaring belly.

9th grade boys are throwing words,
"Fat, ugly, thunder thighs."
And they don't know
That she'll remember that for the rest of her life.

Her mother says "Oh, darling, you're withering away."
Those words are music to her ears.
That's all she ever wanted to hear.
All she wanted was to be almost nothing.

Stretch, fold, bend, lather.
Push your limits, it's good enough.
108 pounds, still not good enough.
"Fat c***."
I'll never forget those words.

Nip, tuck, sip, crunch.
Eat this, don't eat this.
Look, don't touch.
5 miles, 6 miles, 7 miles a day.
Diet pills, liposuction, vomit away.


The author's comments:
I think this poem is self explanatory. Almost everybody goes through stages in their life where they're trying to fit in or please others around them.

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