She wiped the fresh wet steam off of the mirror, the eyes of a stranger stared back at her. Her long swirly hair was sticking to her neck; her long thin fingers traced the outline of her long pale face.
“Ugly” she whispered aloud, wrapping the towel more securely around her bust she trailed into her small bedroom. Paintings of beautiful dancers lined her walls; she wanted to desperately to be just like them, their grace, poise, beauty. The towel slipped down from her chest and she stared at herself through the mirror.
“Too much here.” She pinched a small area of skin and frowned. Nobody knew of her impatience with her weight, she was expected to be as small as possible, if she wanted to dance half as well as Paloma Herrera.
The shelves that lined her walls were coated in a small layer of dust, sprawled among the dusty shelves were worn out pointe shoes, and old stuffed rabbits. Among the shoes and her childhood toys, were pictures of her mother. Her long lost mother, whom never saw her daughter dance.
The girl looked lost in a memory, as tears began to fall, she wiped them away and began to criticize her body once again.
Her ribs, stuck out like a stray cat’s.
Her hips, the skin surrounding them seemed almost to tear over the creased edges of the bony hips.
Her face, colorless and thin.
Her eyes, seemed lifeless and tired, the bags under them were purple and swollen.
She had given everything she had to be the best dancer she could, it seemed that being even perfect wasn't enough.
OKAY ONE. I DO NOT HAVE ANOREXIA.
TWO: THIS IS JUST A SHORT STORY FOR THOSE WHO DO.
THREE: IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO HAS ANOREXIA, PLEASE HELP THEM FIND ADDITIONAL HELP.
