Confessions of a Model

Visit me sometime, said the dessert plate.

One more slice will not hurt.

No one would know.

 

There’s always room for one more.

One more piece of chocolate.

One more slice of pizza.

One more stick of butter.

 

The mirror became the enemy.

Shrieked at the jiggling flab.

Mocked at the increasing weight.

Fumed at the new plus sizes.

 

The toilet bowl understood though.

Gave the nerve to ram my fingers.

Helped in ignoring the vile taste.

Cheered by showing the flat tummy.

 

My head strayed on its way back home.

Cigarettes were the slimming pills.

Alcohol roped in mock-happiness.

Drugs erased traces of grim reality.

 

My body started giving up on me.

Only dismal escapades in bed.

Blackouts a steady companion.

Painful withdrawal while resisting.

 

Visit me sometime said the toilet bowl.

One more puke will not hurt.

No one would know.

 

But… I would know.

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Inspired by some dark conversations and confessions shared with an aspiring model. Anthony at dVerse has us spilling our beans tonight at the pub. Join in and share yours…

 Image Source

Prompt #75 Influence the Dark Side

Image Courtesy: Antonia Mora

“You are lovely” they said “Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy”

Why did my stomach roll? Why did my chin wobble? Where did the bulges come from?

I escaped into loose shirts.

A collage of super models, diets and exercises decorated my walls

The models frowned as I wolfed down a chocolate bar

“One last time” I promised them every time amidst desperate tears

Shadows darkened the dungeons of my head, and I stole glances at the bowl.

It beckoned slyly, “It only takes two fingers”

I didn’t feel my fingers ramming down my throat. I didn’t taste the bile.

But I was aware of the dark satisfaction of my emptied bowels

I was enslaved!

Cravings for cheese, butter and chocolates made way for the gratifying taboo.

Dry tears were shed every night with umpteen promises to stop.

All vapour. All flushed. With two fingers.

My breasts sagged and my love handles disappeared.

I dropped sizes.

Now they say, “What happened? You look ill. You look pale”

The mirror laughed “A slimy green is their jealousy; can’t bear to see you slender”

It pointed out the various bulges and imperfections around my lower body.

“Keep going”

It was a waking nightmare. A dark, endless tunnel threatening to collapse on me.

Eyes shrouded with a black film, tongue burned like charcoal…

I didn’t know I was dying. I didn’t know I needed help.

All I knew was that I was fitting into the size two dress.

A blackout, a hospital gown and years of exorcising the demons… I breathe free!

Almost.

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Written for mindlovemisery’s menagerie

When looking beautiful comes at a price.