Beautiful

Nov, 2024

Paint licks my fingernails. Making. Them. Shine. Gold. Acrylic dust chokes the air. Drilling into my nail beds so I don’t bite and make it bloody. Infected. The nail tech asks how I’m doing. No eye contact. Meaningless, hollow. I’m angry. It was a hard day. He looks up. Black pinpricks staring into mine. You’re too pretty to be angry.

Cold. Medical offices are always cold. Sterile. Fluorescent Lights. Vinyl fabric sticks to my skin. The sharp tang of antiseptic lingers. I ask for a blanket and they give me a thin, papery gauze. Meals consist of icy yogurt drinks and a ginger shot for nausea. Every time I swallow, there is a lump. 1 month, 20 pounds down. My cheekbones jut out. Sharp. Making my cheeks sink in. Eyes made bigger, bulging. My tears are warm and salty which is oddly comforting. But the salt makes my lips crack. Turning them rouge. From blood. What medications do you take? Brilliant white jacket. Clipped words. No eye contact. Trintellix. What is that? It’s a depression medication. Depression, looks up. But you’re so pretty. 

High school. Black eyeliner, goopy mascara coats my eyes making them shine blue. I never wear makeup. There is still a smile on my face as I slip into my stepmother's car. I wave goodbye to my friend. You look like a whore. 

Summertime. I stand in front of the mirror wearing skinny jeans and a long sleeve, ruby top. 

You look like a slut. Stepmother whisks around the corner, then out the door. 5 seconds. I watch her go, then stare back into the mirror.

Psalm Isadora. Larger than life. A goddess. A dakini. A suicide. This was years ago and still it haunts me. A woman I looked up to, and in my darkest times, found strength in. I asked someone who knew her. I think the people closest to her at that time were caught up in the glamour of her. The Psalm. And never really saw her.