Sunday, February 15, 2009
I'm 19 years old and I know how I want to die
Fragile, small. Lily white flesh stretched over a skeleton, as painful to look at as it was to exist in the final days.
Ana isn't beautiful. Not by societal standards. It's always acceptable to be thin as death but angular bones need to be softened in photoshop, sunken eyes corrected with make-up.
I crave, though, to look as sick on the outside as I feel on the inside. My body is my art, my mind is slowly breaking under the pressures that keep building around me. I think that's beautiful, and that's the only thing in my heart that's beautiful.
Insanity is like a friend, though. Somehow, it makes me feel superior to others. My sickness is a sign of intelligence. Every goal I reach is a trophy to my worth as a human being, and in the end, I want to be able to die, perfectly.
I want to be walking death. I want people to know I'm dying. Just one more experience, attention, to love and hate at the same time. The shame of being judged, but the sick sense of fame I'll get from knowing they're watching me die
and to be completely honest
I hate each and every one of them.
I can't talk to people. I can't relate to people. I don't like to touch them
I don't even want to tell you my weight. All you need to know is that I'm a failure. I'm average. I'm normal.
Mediocrity is worse than death.