Looking at myself in the mirror, my eyes trying to find her. Maybe, they do find her or maybe, they’re just as deluded as my mind is. Because I was never her, I can never be.
I can’t straighten my unruly hair and no matter how much I try to hold my belly in, it is always more eager than I am to flaunt itself.
And believe me, I did try to tailor myself into being that girl but I couldn’t. This
hammering, this squeezing in won’t succour me.
But a fragment of me was still ashamed of me. And if only had someone whispered, “you don’t need to be her, you never did” would I have been able to look me in the eyes and only my eyes?