Small girl, my young girl; Picturing an older copy. A makeup wearing, boy crazed machine of intellect and grace. A rare thought but a strong one.
Older but not old enough. Missing bolts and screws; Somehow still working. I see something in a mirror that makes my organs plummet through the floor. I'm not her. Never have been; Never will be.
Big girl, but not large enough. Hair fallen out and swollen gums. Bruised skin and flushed face. Ripped soul but a full heart.
The mirror tells the same story, But in a different font. My once hollow skeleton is now filled with music and chipped paint. I am the same damaged goods. I am ripped skin and muffled coughs, Cookie dough ice cream and kisses on the cheek.
I'd gotten so lost from my former-self that I didn't realize something now obvious: I never stopped being her. I will never stop being her.
I will never be young enough, old enough, happy enough, brave enough. But I am me; and I am more than enough.