I see them dancing down the street
In their thousands, ballet pumps on their
Pedicured feet. Their legs are pale as
Ghosts, ice-white skin brushed with faint
Sparkles to capture the attention of passing
Men in a not-so-subtle way

The girl you’ll never be has perfect hair,
It’s never brittle or frizzy or dry. It always
Collapses around her tiny shoulder in wild
Chestnut waves, which swallow half
An hour of her day and most of her weekly
Wages to create.

Strawberry smiles and ivory eyes

Whether its this-seasons top fashion –
Black leggings – or miniskirts or strappy
Tops or long tweed trousers with some
Hippy belt it doesn’t matter.

She is – they are – beautiful, far beyond
Doubt. And the boys walk past them, turn
And stare, turn and stare. Yet when you
Walk past the boys, there’s no affection there.

Not that I’m bothered. I only borrowed time –
Eight of the best years of my life – to try
And be one of those girls, yet knowing deep
Down I really wasn’t the ballet shoe type.

Never suited me, to be a blonde.
Who likes Topshop anyway? Who would
Want to be a model? Who cares if you
Hate the mirror, and the mirror hates you,
And every time the dragon inside you
Rises up from the toilet bowl it drags you
To the mirror and forces you to look in it,
To look deep within your soul and it turns
To you and cries out,

“Monster! Monster!”

And you break down in tears at the
Judgement of the Almighty Mirror God
And that’s all you can see in yourself
Is hatred and fear, hatred and fear?

Oh those skinny girls, super skinny girls
Dancing on their super skinny feet, where
All the world’s a stage, and I sit in the back
With my eyes on the floor, for I am just
The idiot telling the tale: who am I? I cry - 

Who am I, with rotten teeth and blotchy
Skin and innumerable constellations of
Scars? Who am I with brittle hair and flabby
Thighs and clothing from the cheaper side
Of town? Who am I, with my brains which
Are only used to calculate calories, who
Speak of Schrodinger and Heisenberg
And Einstein but only think of basal
Metabolic rate and the number of
Sit-up repetitions and how long I’ve
Had my Slendertone on for today?

Who is this girl with the world at her
Feet and her heart in her hands? Who is
This girl who walks with her elephant
Feet on deserted beaches under the
Silver-blue sky? Who is this girl who hates
And loves her live in equal measure, torn
Tormented by the reality of herself
And the dream of the girl that she’ll never
Be? Who is this girl, who knows she
Was born to be a physicist, not a model,
Yet tortures her body because the
World wouldn’t let her anywhere near
The catwalk?

Who is this girl who is loved and does love
But still doesn’t think that love is enough?

Oh the answer is so obvious it sounds
Rather silly. This girl in the world, she is me.

Maya King