Star On the Brink

The anorexia is not conspicuous, being half-submerged - just breaking through. She’s a powdered mirage, her skin a hyaline sheer drawn over a necklace of clavicle bones. She knows her chest is returning to childhood, she wants to shelter there, to be her own child. Her small breasts are burgundy nipples, buds made more prominent, anchored as they are to shipwrecked ribs. Designer bling distracts. Cameras whir, she poses, hand paused on a hip denuded; not resting there, but stealthily carrying a pinch of flesh toward a spotlight. We collude with her, applaud the way she decorates a condition. We know her emaciated beauty is a mutual hoodwink. We know that the closer to death sexuality becomes, the more rapacious our appetite; the more we will wail, as she slips through our hungry eyes.