there's beauty in what's broken

Until he breaks.

Arched back, bruised knees. There’s nothing sexy about it, but it looks good on stage. Eyes like he’s going to fuck you tonight, but he doesn’t mean it. Never means it. Or maybe he does. He can’t do anything without meaning it with his whole heart. There’s truth in that look. But it’s like a daydream to reality.

Slamming to the ground, wearing the wrong kind of shoes for this – the kind that don’t let him stand up fast enough. Falls down.

Again.

Arched back, bruised knees. Slamming to the ground. Falling down.

Again.

Arched back, bruised knees. Slamming to the ground. Falling down. Again. Again. Again.

Thick putrid sweat, collapsing from exhaustion. Smiling through it. 

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

He stares into the mirror. That’s it, right there. A small line between his brows, like a little river, except that it isn’t pretty. He taps it gently with his index finger. Once, twice. He’ll need to make another appointment soon. It’ll get worse.

He drags a jade gua sha across his cheekbones. Once, twice. More times than he can count, until it’s angry red. Pinpricks of microneedles until there’s blood. Picking at a pimple on his chin.

He makes a phone call. His appointment is next Friday.

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

150 + 200 + 300 = 650

Again.

125 + 430 + 15 + 100 = 670

Again.

600, 650, 410. That was a good day. 500. 700. 

75

69

67

66

66

64

Again.

He stands on the backbone of his own willpower, clinging to it with bloody hands and a barely-beating heart. 

He is crushed beneath his own boot.

Again. 

*

Until he breaks.

“Tell me what you think?”

“It’s good. Good work.”

“Tell me honestly.”

“It’s just…”

“Just?”

“It’s fine. Good. You did well.”

“You’re lying.”

Again.

“Right. It’s just…not good enough. It’s not good.”

“Oh.”

“You were lazy. Slacking. Do it again.”

Again. Again.

People call him cruel.

He’s only as cruel to others as he is to himself.

*

Until he breaks.

Arched back, bruised knees.

Tiny needles to the skin. He’s a pincushion of a human being.

700 is the hard limit. 400 if he’s lucky.

Nothing over 64, below 62 is preferable.

People call him cruel. 

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

“Don’t you think you’re killing yourself?”

“So?”

“You’ll die.”

He hums.

“You’ll die if you’re not careful.”

He thinks that’s a gross underestimation of the power of willpower (ha). It’s a little insulting.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t you feel sick?”

“I feel sick. I am sick.”

“So why don’t you stop?”

“I won’t. I’ll keep going no matter what. Until it kills me.”

“I worry about you.”

“Don’t. This is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. You won’t take that away from me.”

I won’t let it get taken away from me, he thinks. 

My own body or lack of ability will not hold me back.

You won't even pry it from my cold, dead hands.

He thinks, he thinks. But doesn’t say. 

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

Arched back, bruised knees.

Tiny needles to the skin. Pinpricks across frown lines and a thousand other terms he once never knew existed. Bunny lines, crow's feet. Some of them even sound cute, if it weren't for their implications.

600 is the hard limit. 350 if he’s lucky.

Nothing over 62, below 60 is preferable.

He can't understand why his friends don't work themselves to the bone too. Why they like it easy. Why they're so in love with the same lackadaisical listlessness he only possessed as a child. 

They're adults, aren't they? So why don't they have what it takes?

People call him cruel.

He's cruel to others. He's cruel to himself.

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm okay."

That's a lie. 

"I don't think you are."

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I'm worried about you."

"Don't be."

"How can I not?"

"Easily. Just turn a blind eye."

Again.

"I can't do that anymore. You'll break."

"And? It doesn't matter if I'm okay. It doesn't matter to me. Get it?"

"No, I don't."

He hums.

"Don't you want to rest a bit?"

"I'm not like you."

"Like me?"

"Listless. Lazy."

"Wow."

"I'm not going to give up. Not like you."

"Fuck you."

"I'm not going to stop."

I am cruel to others, he thinks. I am cruel to myself.

He thinks, he thinks. But doesn't say.

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

He buys a new pair of shoes. Stronger, sturdier. The wrong kind of shoes. The kind that won't let him stand up fast enough. But it's what he needs. They'll look good on stage. 

He can do anything with enough willpower. His feet blister. He grits his teeth through it and disguises his disgust with a smile.

Again.

A couple bandaids would stop the bleeding. But maybe he kind of appreciates the familiar ache of free-flowing blood. His shoes are painted ruby red at the heels and toes, like one of Cinderella's sisters. 

He can only hope the story won't end with birds pecking out his eyes. 

Again.

Some secret part of him thinks that he wouldn't mind if it did.

Another, more secret part of him knows he would never let that happen.

He'll be standing at the edge of the clouds with the world at his feet. One way another. He'll gaze down in triumph.

Again.

*

Until he breaks.

Again.

Again.

Again.

There’s beauty in what is broken.

Beauty in bruises, in rib cages and jagged scars. In needles and hollow eyes. In sleepless nights and repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.

Beauty in smiling with bloodied lips. In knowing that he’s turning himself into a ghost. 

There is unfathomable beauty in letting people hurt him. In hurting himself. In pushing himself and letting others push him right back. There’s beauty in low self-esteem and low calorie brownies. 

Again.

Again. 

*

Until he breaks.

Until he breaks. And it's beautiful.

Arched back, bruised knees. Slamming to the ground. Standing back up. That's it. He's got it now. 

He wonders if anyone notices the tremble in his step. 

He'll do better next time.