Beauty is pain, they say.
Chin up, shoulders back, brace yourself.
Perfect, complicit dolls.
Beauty is currency.
Sugar-sweet, ripe for the picking,
Consumable goods to be devoured.
They pull the corset strings tighter,
Until we can no longer breathe.
Ribs crushed under soft satin.
The alluring silhouette digs and bites into flesh,
A comfort, a reassurance of
Desire.
Every breath excruciating, sharp,
Shallow, controlled, quiet.
Pain becomes familiar.
Wait. A curtain falls,
A seam unravels; we dance,
Unlaced, unbound, unburdened.
We see our bodies bare,
Scars, no longer hidden,
Unashamed, admired.
And for now, that will be enough.
