Post by Robin on Jan 18, 2006 19:09:44 GMT -8
This is...weird, and pretty rough. Not rough as in mature, but rough as in "who would buy this diamond when they didn't even hack it out of the rock properly" rough. I need some help.
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Hamstrings pulling taut beneath gauzy tights,
Pretty little shoes filling with bright red blood from pretty little toes;
Toes under too much strain to hold up the pretty little girl.
She can’t weigh more than ninety eight pounds,
But it’s still too much for this pretty little girl’s pretty little toes.
Her lips are clamped shut as the fat lady sings,
Dainty little hands stretching out, parallel, with a dainty little leg,
The leg on the ground trembling beneath the pressure.
She stumbles, falters, almost falls, and almost saves it,
But falls anyways:
Her weight’s too much for her dainty little legs.
Bleached teeth bite collagen-puffed lips to hold back laughter.
She vows to eat nothing but ex-lax and drink nothing but Ballerina tea,
Spending the rest of her days training and crapping her brains out,
Gradually losing the hated, betraying weight.
She feels and looks horrible, but at least she can dance,
Dance without falling flat on her ass.
And she sings, too.
Boy, does she sing.
A voice like a parakeet imitating Celine Dion,
Coming out of a starved throat like the food that she never ate.
She dances, and she sings, starving herself all the time,
Writing her own lyrics to double their pleasure and triple her fun.
“All this suffering and mainstreaming,” she cries,
Serenading the owners of bleached teeth and collagen lips.
“I can’t even pretend to know individuality.”
The lyrics, of course, are awful,
A hateful reminder of her inferiority,
But who cares?
Everybody loves a wunderkind,
A tiny, petite, pretty little wunderkind.
Everybody loves her now.
They wouldn’t dare laugh.
----------
Hamstrings pulling taut beneath gauzy tights,
Pretty little shoes filling with bright red blood from pretty little toes;
Toes under too much strain to hold up the pretty little girl.
She can’t weigh more than ninety eight pounds,
But it’s still too much for this pretty little girl’s pretty little toes.
Her lips are clamped shut as the fat lady sings,
Dainty little hands stretching out, parallel, with a dainty little leg,
The leg on the ground trembling beneath the pressure.
She stumbles, falters, almost falls, and almost saves it,
But falls anyways:
Her weight’s too much for her dainty little legs.
Bleached teeth bite collagen-puffed lips to hold back laughter.
She vows to eat nothing but ex-lax and drink nothing but Ballerina tea,
Spending the rest of her days training and crapping her brains out,
Gradually losing the hated, betraying weight.
She feels and looks horrible, but at least she can dance,
Dance without falling flat on her ass.
And she sings, too.
Boy, does she sing.
A voice like a parakeet imitating Celine Dion,
Coming out of a starved throat like the food that she never ate.
She dances, and she sings, starving herself all the time,
Writing her own lyrics to double their pleasure and triple her fun.
“All this suffering and mainstreaming,” she cries,
Serenading the owners of bleached teeth and collagen lips.
“I can’t even pretend to know individuality.”
The lyrics, of course, are awful,
A hateful reminder of her inferiority,
But who cares?
Everybody loves a wunderkind,
A tiny, petite, pretty little wunderkind.
Everybody loves her now.
They wouldn’t dare laugh.