The Model by Mia

I flipped through the pages of my magazine. There. There I was. Crouched on the floor, black makeup running down my cheeks, curving around my lips. Thin. So tiny. My bones protruded out in anyway they were able. My shoulders, my back, my face. Over the bones and air brushed skin, I was modeling an artifact of clothing that closely resembled a wedding dress. I turned the page. Now I was lying on a unnecessarily tall bed, lips cherry red, glossed over and open. My wavy blond hair was thrown over my left shoulder carelessly. A golden sheet wrapped around my body, cocooning me in a rather suggestive manner. I was an icon, a piece of art. I was something to be admired, to be sought out. To be a mystery. Not to be loved.
Pages turned. This time I was full body pressed up against another model. His thick fingers in the arch of my back. Stilettos. Torn black dress. Blue paint peeling off the doors.
I remembered when I was a little kid, and flipped through this same type of magazine, wondering who they were. Those models. Those young girls who wore designer clothes and five hours worth of makeup. All of them so----unreal.
I wanted to know their names. I wanted to know who they were. I knew, even then, that behind that mask, behind that beauty, there MUST be a real person. And now, ten years later, I was one of them. A high fashion model that mystifies teenage girls and cries and cries herself to sleep each night because she feels so worthless and objectified.
I could see the resemblance, barely, between ME and the face the world saw. But it wasn't the same. The pictures didn't show my green eyes or naturally straight hair. Nope. It was covered up. They covered me up. They weren't going to cover me up anymore.
I had modeled to Elle, People, Italian Vogue and French Vogue. I had modeled for Victoria Secret and Gap. But I didn't feel beautiful. Weighing a normal weight was not an option. Working out was forbidden----any muscle gain or tone would not only ruin my weight of 105 lbs, but it would "break up" or "disturb" my body complexion that was desirable in photo shoots. Taking off my colored contacts was discouraged. As for makeup, well----I wasn't allowed to take it off until I was alone. Completely alone, with not even the slimmest chance of someone seeing me.
I let the magazine fall to the ground, bending under its own weight on the maple floor. I took the mirror and broke it. Jagged silver clashed on the floor, reflecting me upwards. I took the food from the counter and ate it. I packed my bag and left.
I was done being covered up.