Seventeen. He looks in the mirror and slowly runs his hand over his slim stomach. Too slim. The hipbones protrude at an awkward angle, delicate and small. They move when he moves and push at the thin, tight layer of skin, like tiny hands against a sheet of rubber, searching every pore for an opening. Shoulders. They slope in alignment with his hips. They’re very steep. He deepens the curve in his back and imagines himself as one of Erté’s models, holding a French cigarette between his long, slender fingers. "Les gens sont si passé." But he straightens. Erté. Maybe not. His high cheekbones are sharp and defined. They cause his cheeks to rose prettily. But the rest of his skin is blanched and opaque, like the flesh of a jellyfish; and his eyes, with their short, dark lashes, are watery and set deep within their sockets. Eyes. The eyes of his schoolmates as he undresses in the locker room. He runs his hand over his slim, naked stomach and turns the mirror around.
Reason for writing:
Inspired by the paintings of Salvador Dali.
Birth sign: Virgo
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