so she said.
I’m standing in front of the mirror.
Will I ever be happy?
I am a mere shadow of all I used to be. You know. Confident.
Beautiful.
And all I can think is:
Wow, you are ugly. Who is that looking back at me?
But, my mom tells me I’m beautiful so that’s got to count for something, right? I don’t think it matters. For every five people who tell you you’re beautiful, there is one to tell you you’re ugly. In so many words.
I once gave a stranger on the street five dollars because he told me I was beautiful. That’s how much it costs these days. Beauty is a scam.
It’s a sham. And I want in.
I can find ugliness from head to toe.
Toes. My mom says I have sausage toes. There’s one. I hate you toes.
Feet. They are as wide as a man’s. A big burly man. With little sausage toes. I hate you feet.
Legs. They hyperextend. I remember standing in the dance studio, staring at the mirror and wondering:
Why don’t my knees touch?
Their legs are long and graceful. Perfect. Mine are fat and bowed. I hate you legs.
And then, you know, it moves upward. To the stomach that hangs over pants you can’t zip. To the breasts that are too large. Even my ears don’t match my face. I hate you stomach. I hate you breasts. I hate you ears.
I hate you, you.
I am standing in front of the mirror.
And I’m thinking, Oh stop crying.
She said, ‘God, you are so thin, how do you do it?’
I close my eyes. It’s ringing. Reverberating. I open my mouth to answer.
He said, ‘Oh, you should see her when she’s naked. Her clothes hide that fat really well.’
I smile. Yes, that’s how it is.
There has to be some reason, some reason, why!
He said, ‘You could never do better than me.’
Okay. I believe you.
He said, ‘You are such a puppet to society. You don’t have a unique thought in your head!’
Okay. I believe you.
He said, ‘You really are so chunky.’
Okay. I believe you.
I said, ‘What do you think of my writing?’
He said, ‘It’s good… but…’
Okay. I believe you.
I believe you. It’s three years now. Go the fuck away.
Move away from the mirror.
Get on with life.
Pay five bucks for beauty.
Thousands of dollars for beauty.
He approaches my group of friends on the sidewalk. His skin is a smooth chocolate brown, and he is tall. Tall and handsome. I can’t remember his name. He just stands there.
We are in the city. New York City. There are no rules.
Everyone stops talking. They stare at this intruder.
He said, ‘No, don’t stop talking. I just came over to see what’s up.’
No one says a word. They start to drift away. I stay.
I point to a newspaper stand. They are selling the Onion.
I said, ‘I didn’t know they sold it like that.’
He said, ‘What is it?’
I said, ‘It’s only the funniest newspaper around. They do fake news articles. My most favorite headline ever is “Dolphins evolve opposable thumbs, OH SHIT says humanity”.’
He laughs. I laugh. He looks at me and narrows his eyes.
He said, ‘Damn, you are beautiful.’
I blush.
He said, ‘No really, you are. Do you have a boyfriend?’
I said, ‘Yes I do. He’s at home.’
He said, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Long Island, the south shore.’
‘Do you ever go to Roosevelt Field Mall? I go there all the time.’
I said, ‘Sometimes.’
He said, ‘Well, if you are ever in need of a compliment, come find me. And tell that boyfriend of yours how lucky he is. Now, would you buy my cd?’
I pull out a five dollar bill and pay him for his flattery.
Later my boyfriend said, ‘You realize you got hustled?’
I said, ‘Yes, I understand that. But I felt like it was worth five dollars.’
It is more than a year ago.
I lay underneath him as he thrusts in and out in a rhythmically. Staring at the ceiling, I try to keep from laughing at his mid-coitus expression. I wonder:
What the hell am I doing here?
The act is somewhere between hysterical and depressing.
He kissed me. I hadn’t liked it. He touched me. I hadn’t liked it. He fucked me.
I didn’t like it. I want him to finish. To get off of me. To go away.
I want to disappear between the sheets. Fall through the mattress and through the floor.
Why am I doing this?
I feel dirty. Disgusting. Used. Betrayed.
Betrayed by myself. I am trying to prove something.
He said, ‘Was it good for you, too?’
No. You’re lovemaking skills are horrible. I wouldn’t fuck you again if you paid me.
Will you pay me?
I said, ‘Yes, it was good for me too.’
I am standing in front of his mirror and I can almost see the empty void. Trying to fill it with sex only makes it bigger.
Digs it deeper.
I am naked and I touch myself.
He said, ‘Come back to bed.’
I shudder. I look at him through the mirror. He is getting ready.
I have a sudden urge to throw up. I close my eyes. I can see myself throwing up on his ugly expression. I see myself ripping his dick off or cutting his throat.
This was supposed to make me feel pretty.
I look in the mirror and I see a backyard. In the yard there is a swing set and a vegetable garden. I see a little girl. She is swinging. She is wearing baby blue overalls and a yellow shirt. Her shiny brown hair is tied into pig tails with a yellow ribbon. There is a lady in the vegetable garden. The little girl jumps off her swing and runs into the garden. She picks a cucumber and laughs. She loves cucumbers. The lady helps her peel and cut it. She takes a bite and smiles.
She is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
She fades away. Where did she go?
I reach my fingers out to touch the glass. My cheek is wet.
He said, ‘Come back to bed.’
I shudder.
It is two years ago.
I stand in front of a customer and wait for her to choose.
I am shaking. She is taking so long.
I need to eat. What is taking so long?
Losing control, my hands reach out and grab her face. I smash her skull into the hard, smooth, marble counter. The sound it makes is satisfying. Gratifying.
I move away.
She said, ‘Where are you going?’
Face intact. She is still choosing.
I said, ‘I’m leaving.’
I find someone.
I said, ‘I have to go home.’
I am shaking.
He said, ‘Why?’
I said, ‘I’m sick. I can’t stay here another second.’
He said, ‘I don’t believe you. But if you have to go, go.’
I leave. I drive myself home. I don’t know how I make it.
How did I make it?
I unlock the door and walk into the foyer. I slam the door behind me and fall to the floor. I press my cheek against the cold, hard floor.
What is happening to me?
I stay there for a long time. I want to get to my room. I need to get to my room. With heavy arms, I pick myself up and crawl up two flights of stairs. I scream in pain the whole way. I can’t breath. My breath is gone. Someone is sitting on my chest.
Something is sitting on my chest.
I crawl into bed. I see a razor. I pick it up. I tear at my skin. I rip through the meat in my arms.
Yes. This is satisfying. This is gratifying.
What is happening to me?
I watch myself like I am watching a movie. God, what is going on?
A black curtain closes.
I am watching the television.
It is the fabulous lives of whoever celebrity everybody. They are naming the one hundred hottest celebrities in Hollywood. I don’t know why I am watching.
Number fifty, seventy-seven, five. It really doesn’t matter what number she is.
They said, ‘She used to be ugly, and now she’s one of the hottest stars out there.’
Why?
She was fat. And then she discovered Hollywood’s hottest diet. Yes they said this. They called it Hollywood’s hottest diet. Starvation.
And I thought:
Oh, yes, so this is why.
I am standing in front of the mirror.
Maybe she’ll be beautiful. Maybe she is beautiful.
Look at those big brown eyes.
Look at your shiny hair.
Look at that gorgeous smile. Those straight white teeth.
There is a man who loves her.
And there has to be some reason, some reason, why!
He said, “I want it back. Whatever he took from you, I want it back.”
I said, “I want to give it to you. It’s coming. Slowly. It’s all coming back.”
He said, “I want it now.”
It’s coming back. I’m finding it again.
Step by step. It’s there.
Don't worry. It's overdramatized. way.