lindsaybeth
June 8th, 2012, 05:44 AM
She sits in the front of the mirror, cringing at her reflection while she painstakingly applies her make-up. She hates to look at the person staring back at her, but this is the only way she can camouflage herself. Her war paint makes the day more bearable, knowing that she can create a different version of herself for the rest of the world to see. But no matter how hard she tries to change the outside, she can’t change who she is on the inside and that burdens her terribly.
When people look at her they see the mirage she creates every morning; a beautiful young woman with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. She’s become the master of this act, having perfected the art of pretend over the years, terrified that people will be as repulsed by her true self as she is. She can’t stand herself and that’s a problem that is impossible to escape. How can you run away from yourself?
Hate and revulsion course deep through her veins, like the blood she coaxes out with a razor every night. Nobody would understand why she cuts herself. She sees it as punishment, as atonement for the sin of simply being alive. She hopes that by purging herself like this she will one day be at peace with herself, but she doesn’t really believe her prophecy will find truth. Her skin crawls with rigid scars of repentance and relief, of hurt and harm.
She spends her days surrounded by strangers, morphing into a fictitious character that they would find acceptable. She spends her nights in her true form; a broken girl crying to be something more, begging for difference, screaming for somebody to offer her a metamorphosis into a better person, somebody likeable and loveable.
But nobody answers her cries, so she falls into her routine of self-mutilation. She crumples on the floor like the damaged mess she is, watching as the blade invites her skin to pour out the pain. This is the only time she feels any form of happiness or contentment, an agonizing bliss.
She’s afraid to die, but she’s afraid to live, and that confliction terrifies her.
When people look at her they see the mirage she creates every morning; a beautiful young woman with a smile on her face and a spring in her step. She’s become the master of this act, having perfected the art of pretend over the years, terrified that people will be as repulsed by her true self as she is. She can’t stand herself and that’s a problem that is impossible to escape. How can you run away from yourself?
Hate and revulsion course deep through her veins, like the blood she coaxes out with a razor every night. Nobody would understand why she cuts herself. She sees it as punishment, as atonement for the sin of simply being alive. She hopes that by purging herself like this she will one day be at peace with herself, but she doesn’t really believe her prophecy will find truth. Her skin crawls with rigid scars of repentance and relief, of hurt and harm.
She spends her days surrounded by strangers, morphing into a fictitious character that they would find acceptable. She spends her nights in her true form; a broken girl crying to be something more, begging for difference, screaming for somebody to offer her a metamorphosis into a better person, somebody likeable and loveable.
But nobody answers her cries, so she falls into her routine of self-mutilation. She crumples on the floor like the damaged mess she is, watching as the blade invites her skin to pour out the pain. This is the only time she feels any form of happiness or contentment, an agonizing bliss.
She’s afraid to die, but she’s afraid to live, and that confliction terrifies her.