That model, in the magazine.

I skim through the pages of a magazine

My eyes dance around the cold, stone-like pictures

A small bosom attached to a feather light waist and skinny legs

Bony ribs draped over a hungry stomach

Lonely thoughts, and eternal tears

Her eyes are so cold, and her smile is blood red

How does she do it? How does she stay alive?

Narrow knees, and bruised knuckles, there are scars on her arms, and thighs, and ankles that she hides.

You think she's perfect? You think she's fautless? I sure do. And maybe she is, to only the ones who view her made up beauty.