There she sat, at attention for the world’s viewing, sixteen years of age. Like a wind-up toy awaiting play time, she looked at the boys with apprehension for she knew and deeply understood their affections for her—their coveted imaginations dancing behind eyelids. She was the life of the party, stories circulating this way and that as if she had some dark secret hidden away inside her—like a treasure. She resembled other girls, tight curls, lips painted in ravishing reds, materials that hugged her body just so that they mimicked the touch of love she so desired. The girl found an opening that she could force herself through, standing, waiting for her crowd’s admiration, approval that never quite filled the void within her own heart. And each night she found pleasure in a man who she thought she knew—a man who was much like the others—a figure of momentary comfort, fleeting penetration. Across from the girl of her youth sat her double, at the age of twenty-four, still bearing light’s budding flower perhaps, hanging on words of hope, desperately as each thread had relinquished its grip on her soul. At times, she glances at her reflection of girlhood, masked womanhood, with rage warring in her heart for she longed to shake the girl into perception, into clarity. “Wake up!” She would yell across the room whereby the girl did not reply for her ears had been deafened from truth. With age, with growth, she believed she had uncovered truth, awoke from the darkness she was blanketed in for so long. Reality has a way of inviting herself in, revealing the sleeping illusions all women walk in. The woman stands up and begins running towards her ghost, but a mirror catches her grip and shatters at her embrace. And with shards of glass, the reflections cut her to pieces, waking the sleeper of the past. Her daughter burst in and it jolted her from thought.
Her daughter burst in and it jolted her from thought. Her bouncing yellow curls and bright baby blues flickering sunshine as if she could smile with her eyes. (Every time she climbs into the car, she asks for “This Little Light of Mine” as she sings with such tenderness pouring from her heart.) She brushed her hands against a tube of mascara and lipstick, diving right into the brushes still tinged with grains of mineral. Oh, how she longed to be like her mother, beautiful and kept together. She reached over to one of the brushes and swept it across her cheek, proudly glancing over to see if her mother had noticed. (She too was once a little girl, one who was always revered for her doll-like beauty. So much that she became that doll, lifeless with a painted-on face just so that the world beheld her as such.) Her gaze was fixed upon her daughter once more, and she considered her eyes, hearing her words as tangible as day, whispered in her heart, “Mommy, I want to be just like you.” Comments are closed.
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