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Tuesday, June 14th, 2005
@ 10:01pm
  I could hear her from around the corner...and every nosey bone in my body wanted to peer around it and watch...


...


so i did.

and there she was.

A tiny, freckled heap on the floor, in the corner...across from the mirror that most dressing rooms provide in hopes of dashing young girls' spirits. Soft blue tears were streaming from her pale gray eyes as she sat twinkling in a bright and cheery floral patterned two piece...Her lightly dusted auburn hair was pulled back and braided into two long and pretty braids, and the pink ribbons that held them in place complimented her fair skin. She was tiny and freckled and fair and BEAUTIFUL...despite that she couldn't have been older than 7. But there she was...crying.

She couldn't have known I was watching as she straightened herself up, haphazardly wiped the tears from her eyes, and stood just long enough to critique herself in the mirror once more. Her light and delicate hand drifted over her ribcage, as her glassy eyes fixated themselves onto the light and delicate mit..intensely watching its every move. It waivered across her stomach...then down around her hips. Her hand hung aimlessly in the air as her eyes scoured over her string bean legs...and rose up again to watch the hand. Slowly, she raised the tiny palm to her sternum and plucked the fragile bones like an angels harp strings as it made its way past her piercing collarbones and her long and slender neck, until her fingers lightly tredded upon her cheekbones...and her eyes were met by their own reflection. She was still for a moment as she perused over her stone like features with a solemn, longing look of disquietude. With wide eyes, her fingers lingered over her cheekbones...her nose...lips..chin..and in a moment of complete collapse, she toppled, bawling, to the floor.
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Staring blankly in the mirror, I can pinpoint twenty thousand of my flaws in 2.7 seconds. Every morning I step onto my scale (and fifteen times more throughout the day) and every morning I step off again, the ground shaken beneath me...more angry with myself than before. My hair is never nice enough to leave down and yet, I hate it when it's pulled back. My face is looking increasingly tired and sad, day after day...my eyes just look so empty. My shoulders are always slumped...I dont have the confidence (or the strength) to stand up straight. My hands are so veiny and calloused and harsh..like an aliens. My wrists are too thick. My legs are too short and too stumpy. My arms hang without a purpose. I'm entirely too round and plump and unpleasant as a person. My feelings toward my reflection are the only outlet for the manifestation of hatred toward myself as a living, breathing thing. I hate me. And I wish that would go away.
And in a moment of complete collapse, she topples, bawling, to the floor.
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I tip toe from around the corner and gently kneel beside the slowly crumbling, breaking girl... I lift her chin and brush the auburn strands from her face..before wrapping my arms around her and hugging her as powerfully..and as softly..as possible. My childhood is replaying itself in the form of old photographs and slideshows in the recesses of my mind and as I rock the tiny, freckled heap of a child..
back and forth
back and forth
I whisper to her the words that might have saved my life...the truth or the lie or the ultimate display of affection that might have prevented my never ending battle with my constantly deteriorating, forever heart wrenching self image... the words whose absence fueled the fire of a baby raising herself as an ugly girl..
We're both bruising and breaking and struggling to breath as hold her close and tell her as if she's never been told before..
"You're beautiful...you're so beautiful..."		  
     
12 | i lack creativity.
 
 
thefemme_fatale
 
 

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