I am searching for a likeness of my image. Desperately flipping through the glossy pages of a magazine. A firm gaze at the T.V. screen.
Flickering scenes of long mindless bodies. Beautiful women (I am told) peering at my features in the holy mirror. My beauty is disguised
by an opaque, white screen. And so I hate this insufficient shell that covers my soul. I hate my wild curly hair, my oddly colored skin,
my large thighs and a*s, bulging stomach, and awkward breasts. Their standards can't hold my (our) weight. And so I am dropped. Falling
into a pit of a million hidden bodies that can't be shown. Below I hit(hard) and it all becomes clear. The spirits of the forgotten women
enter my mouth and vibrate safely in my solid stomach. Carried away by my strong thighs. Hidden behind my almighty breasts. Guarded by the
snakes that make up my hair. Fear of Medusa keeps the evil ones back. Because now they know that at any moments I could take one look at
them and turn them all to stone.