There’s an old superstition
That pictures taken of you
take a piece of your soul.
I’d never given it much thought before
But I think in your case
It might be true.

I remember once, when we first met as children
Your mother joked that you were a wild horse

You were always running,
Towards your goals,
Towards the future,
Towards being better at back hand springs than those pesky boys.
Always leaping,
Towards new experiences,
Towards success,
Towards the adrenaline rush of doing something slightly dangerous.
Always first
You stamped out jealous insults with a toss of your mane
Never afraid to dive in headfirst where I was too cautious

I thought you’d grow up just as strong,
Fearless and bold.
But somewhere along the way the wild horse became ensnared in a realm of mirrors.
The camera flashes,
then your eyes and fingers tear apart the image.
“Disgusting” you say.

Every click of the shutter is a chip away from who you used to be.
Every moment spent zooming in and leaning close,
Every moment dissecting the features of your face as if they were a bloated frog,
Every moment spent standing in front of that mirror, erasing and redrawing your cheekbones and eyebrows
Poisons the wild horse inside:
Breaking her nimble, fragile legs,
Burdening her slender back with a little more weight.
Your hatred eating her away.

When I look at you, I see a bird,
Slim bones and delicate shoulders,
Long fingers, ready to grow into feathers that take to fluttering flight.
But when you look in the mirror, it’s all twisted, and you can’t see  yourself.
Instead, a grotesque monster with swollen eyes, pebbly, festering skin, and a hulking, hooked nose glares back.

I try to untangle your mind, but you twist and tear my words.
Light, wispy tresses become a thinned frizzy mop.
Glowing, smooth caramel skin becomes ashy and muddy.
Amber, gold-flecked irises with a light-catching texture become dull, drab, brown.
A slender figure falls flat.
It’s never good enough for the emptiness inside.

Why are you so intent on hating every inch of yourself?
Why is such a pure jasmine flower as you festering in a rotting swamp, covering herself in slime and weeds?

My next words may be cruel, but perhaps the pain they inflict will fill the void just enough for you to wake up.

So long as this obsession and hatred continues, you may be pretty as maple candy to look at...
But the husk of yourself you’ve become can never be truly beautiful.