I can imagine your mouth. Stale and chalky. Perhaps even parched. You have yellow teeth with white lines. The yellow being coffee and cigarette smoke. The white lines being the mistakes you made when trying to bleach them.

Your tongue should be black. It is dehydrated and stained. Blisters surfacing and spoiled. Your whole mouth is infected. Diseases breeding with each other, creating a population of in-breed bacteria.

I can imagine your face, a drought, flaking in large pieces. You cover it up with the wrong color foundation. Your eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. They are painted black and gray to disguise the crimson branches. Inside your nose it is permanently crusted with dry blood. The cocaine, heroin, and ketamine caked together and dripping in the back of your throat.

I can imagine your body, disintegrating, and it will never know what nutrition is like. With all the stimulants swimming in your brain, you don't have to feed yourself. Each limb is bone coated in skin. Your torso has no curves. Too bad you could never fast for a cause.

I can imagine your sex. It in the same way as everything else on your body, starved. The irony is, this is the only part of you that is fed. You force it to eat, even in the worst conditions.

I can imagine your mind. Always focusing on what you can change. Your body the main focus, but not enough to save it. You think about agents. You think about the product line, and what you will be advertising. You think about the next city you have to spread your legs for. Your brain in retrograde. Life has become a patented run way.

I can imagine your surroundings. People staring. Mothers telling their daughters that they will one day be as beautiful as you. Men glaring at you, an object, and wondering if you would submit to their needs. You never see any of these people. For your head is propped up to the sky in pride, or perhaps sustaining to keep the blood from your nose leaking onto the new Versace blouse.

I can imagine your future. A secondhand model. Doing commercials for phone companies and shoe sales. Your money dwindling down as your drug habits become the only child you will ever take care of. Your body still fragile, but now there are wrinkles and sagging skin. Your life a waste.

I can imagine your death. No one at the funeral, not even the priest. The only reason you were found dead was the stench from your putrid corpse. You were found with caked foam around your mouth, nude with an over-sized nightshirt, dried blood around your nose and lips, and a syringe stuck in your left arm.

I can imagine your stereotype. You were the classic anorexic, drug addict, rich, model wasting away in a world that could never afford you. You died like they all do, and no one even noticed. Too bad your casket wasn't the major headline on the Milan runway.

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