They keep telling me that women are equal,
but I have a hard time believing it.
How can women be equal when the streets are full of walking skeletons;
girls as young as 14 with gaunt faces,
skin pulled so tight I fear bones might pierce
through the purple, gossamer veil
which so delicately clings to their cheeks.
Twiggy thighs that can barely stand a gust of wind.
Razor kisses up and down both arms.
Thinning hair, almost as lifeless as the bulging eyes
ready to pop out of their sockets.
Frail and dizzy with a visible spine,
she says no to the pizza
even though she hasn’t eaten in days.
You see, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
That’s what we’re taught.
For 19 years I thought I was nothing more
than a pretty face.
On my knees, bent over the toilet
fingers in my…
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