Beauty is defined by
How you act.
Not by the number on the
Starving doesn't work.
Purging doesn't work.
Pills don't work.
The girl you see
In the mirror is
Just the way she is
Don't get upset because
You don't match up
To the media's
Cutting won't work.
Crying won't work.
Dying won't work.
Society is ugly.
Are there physical signs for people who have given up on life, like symptoms of some terminal disease?
Maybe you can see it in their eyes, that ashy grey colour that indicates the total absence of any form of hope.
Maybe you can smell it on them; a sour, despondent smell, similar to the stench of turned milk.
Perhaps you can hear it in their voice, the lack of electricity, the lack of life.
A dead voice.
The voice of a suicidal person should sound like a note played on a harpsichord. Tinny, listless, flat. An unpleasant noise that makes your skin crawl. Nails on a chalkboard.
But maybe there aren't any signs.
Maybe the nicest boy in class is the same boy who gets abused by his step dad every day after school.
Maybe the girl with the infectious laugh is the same girl who is too afraid to tell anybody that she got raped because she still blames herself.
Maybe the boy who does charity work for homeless people is the same boy who cries himself to
You never mention the word "disorder" in certain company.
That's a defense mechanism, rewriting song lyrics in my head as the uncomfortable silence drags on. Not that it's really silent, ever, in a hospital. Machines whir in the background like insect hives, nurses flit (or stomp, depending on inclination) from bed to bed, and some janitor or orderly inevitably rattles by the room with a bucket of vomit or cart of soiled bedding.
So not quiet, then, but certainly uncomfortable. She avoids my eyes, fingering the roses on her lap. Everything in hospitals is blue-and-white, a sick, sterile periwinkle that I suppose is supposed to be cheery. The sheets leach the red from the roses. I'm blue, anorex-da-ba-di.
Naked, she is a lesson in skeletal anatomy, shrunken skin pulled tight on bones ungirt by flesh. In this half-recline bed, I can see only her beautiful face floating above the covers, a corpse-