Words of a Model


United States
34° 12' 19.4508" N, 119° 10' 5.2932" W

Arch your back, suck in your stomach
Stick your neck out, widen your eyes
Pull your arms back, stagger your legs
Point your toes and stand on the tip.
Good, you’re beautiful just like that.
Really, this is when I’m the prettiest?
While looking like I’m having a seizure in midair?
But if you say so, then I’ll keep this pose.
Holding my breath for a minute or two, while you circle around
Clicking and shooting the flashing lights that glare.
“Good job” you say,
“In the back, we have some cigarettes and vodka, right over there.”
As I sit down, everything hurts
My head is raging with pain
My stomach roaring with emptiness
My arms and legs are shaking from exhaustion and fatigue
Miserable but pretty, that’s what I’ll be.
The girls that walk and pose for Valentino and Chanel,
They all got there this way, just like me.
Skin soft as feathers, hair smooth like silk,
Eyes wide like the ocean, lips redder than a crimson rose
Waist petite and tight, limbs long and light
Five feet nine inches and 120 pounds.
Perfect Barbie-figure, perfect model size.
Look at me, I’m pretty.
By looking at me, you would never believe that I wasn’t always like this.
I was strong and healthy with muscle to spare.
My stomach wasn’t flat, and my waist wasn’t really pint-size.
I was happy for a time, walking tall and confident.
but then people started to comment and stare,
“Look how thick she is” and “fat” became one of my adjectives.
Tormented by these piercing words and tired of my heart crumbling,
I took to the knife and table.
The perfection physicians extracted the lard out of my waist
They drained the cellulite out of my ass
And they removed the excess flesh from my limbs.
While I lay there on the table, wrapped like a mummified corpse
I felt like a part of my soul was taken away as well.
When the wraps was removed, I saw myself beautiful and thin.
Look at me, finally I’m pretty…
Five years later, I have more money than I ever imagined ,
More guys chase me than ever before,
Offers to pose for the latest and greatest designers come flying in
But I feel hollow like a rotten tree trunk
and lifeless like a cadaver.
I traded in life of happiness and health
for the actions of being a alluring billboard bitch.
but look at me, I’m pretty
I smile and fake jubilation for those god-forsakenly blazing lights
I feel stifled and strangled,
My innards are struggling to function
Kidneys failing, stomach dying,
And my heart is desperately trying to beat on to live.
But look at me, I’m pretty…
Reduced to thin flesh and bones,
Rotting on the inside,
On my torso expensive clothes
And painted picture perfect on my visage
Look at me, I’m pretty.
One day, like any other day at a photo shoot
Me, masquerade up like a queen with the works and hoops
The photographer armed and wired with his flashing weapons
Ready for the kill, ready to swoop
All of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe
I couldn’t feel a beat inside my chest
Then I fell limp and created a scene
I heard people screaming and shouting
But I couldn’t understand what they’re talking about.
My body is failing and grows cold
It can’t keep up anymore
But barely twenty-six years old
My organs are decaying and falling apart
One of them happens to be my heart
And within the next few minutes
I will be officially dead
But don’t I look pretty
While being so perfectly and permanently still…



I wrote this poem because when I was younger I dreamed of being a model. As I grew older, I saw past the illusion of grandeur of the modelling industry and saw the tragedy of the life of a model. I decided to no longer pursue a career in a field that was so degraading to the soul and body. Although I do not have the skinny, long, and perfect body of a model, I am happy with how I look and feel empowered with it.

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