Howdy, y'all. I'm not dead. I'm rewriting all my old stuff. Possibly. I'm starting, at least. And I'm starting with this baby. It's not perfect, and not even all that good. But I like the point it tries to get across. It's probably a little OOC. But, it's dramatic, and so is she… So I suppose it works somewhat. I don't own Harry Potter.
They call me fat, but really I'm just much too skinny.
I'm paper-thin. If I was a real girl with a real body, and was this thin, they'd have sent me to therapy. Strangers would scream at me to go get a mental healer. I would be the envy of everyone else, with my teeny waist and light weight.
I know that I'm wide. No one is arguing or disputing with that fact. Width isn't important when you're 2D. I'm still a millimeter thick. And that's not healthy. Not that healthy matters of course; I'm not a real person. I'm a painting with a pinch of fairy dust. Nothing about me is real.
I can turn to the side and I'm invisible to the outside world. Staring sideways into the sliver of oblivion that makes our thin world of paintings is the worst part of our flat existence. If you'd ever seen it, you'd be afraid to look to your sides. When you're disgustingly skinny and everything around you is too. Your body fits into it like a card into its slot. You can stare into oblivion and never see a soul. It's dark, and so lonely. Everything is too thin to see. The idea that there are others seems fake until you walk and you're suddenly in another location. A new background, new people, and new room- it can give you whiplash, if you don't end up where you expect.
I can't even see how I'm a lady. I'm paint on canvas, much too wide, but much too thin. I'll never understand how paintings are seen as beautiful. We're animated smudges of pigment. There's no beauty in being a smear.
They tell me I'm fat, but I wish I were.
