Every mirror I look at shatters in my mind and it’s like the shards of glass are piercing into my heart with every second more of looking at my very embodiment being reflected in that mirror. Beautiful. I want to be beautiful. And although I hate to admit, I want your unoriginal, clichè schemes, I want to wear your jacket, call me lovely, I want to hear your whistles all the way from the other side of the room. I want to see your eyes brightly opened up with your mind thinking “Oh ****”. I want my eyelashes to be long so I can flutter them at you like how I’ve always wanted to, and you’d smile at me, in that oh-so-adorable way that makes my heart stop for a few minutes. And you’d come up and talk to me, just like how you talk to all those other girls, all those other PRETTY girls who have gorgeous curls and flawless complexions unlike my two-toned skin and messed up hair. And maybe this world is not big enough for this feeling inside of me. I am imploding and the molecules running around my body are crying out “Love me!”. Maybe my father never said it enough or my mother looked at my sister like she had the face of Marilyn Monroe and maybe, I thought, to be loved, you have to be beautiful. And I wish for a world where the mirrors I stare at don’t shatter to pieces and where the shards don’t pierce my heart like it does when you look upon another who is not me. I don’t want to feel this way anymore and all I want is to be pretty. Pretty in your eyes. But I am wrong more than I write. And I think that I am made to believe that i acquire beauty in a form that is not only skin deep.
There is a medium between smart and hungry, hopeful and desperate, an intellect and a ***** and I am simply, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I picture myself years from now, with a boy who is not you, with a boy who sees more than what glass can reflect.
-x.o & t.m
collaborative work with maxine