She Never Is

It was only a matter of time before she picked up the pen again. No matter what anyone said, her affair with words would always go on. She could try and fool herself again, but that’s just it, she was only fooling. She only felt complete when she could hide behind the world her words created. When she could become the perfect little blonde, that she knew her husband secretly ached for. The perfect little toy, with all the right curves in all the right places. She could be sexy and intelligent in her own world, instead of lacking both qualities in reality. She could express her darkest fears, her deepest discomfitures without the ever-present look of disappointment every eye had. That phrase, “You’re perfect just the way you are”, making bile rise up her throat; fighting to expel every drop of nourishment she had taken in, in the last two days. She was awkwardness wrapped in a cocoon of human skin, trying vehemently to make her way through life without anyone figuring her out. She was better with staying home instead of going out, even though she complained about always being at home. She was a conundrum never to be beaten. A puzzle never meant to be solved. She was mystery, but never beauty. She was confident in her lacking and always lacking confidence. She was the winner in a competition of losers.

She lived behind a façade of a smile and a nod. “Yes, I’m ok”, but never really. But when she picked up the proverbial pen, the truth spilled out of her like a lake flowing through a broken dam. She would tell you how she faked a smile in the morning, hoping no one would notice the lack of light in her eyes. She would tell you about the times she sliced her skin like it was paper, and enjoyed the feeling. She would tell you that at least a thousand times a day, she questioned her existence, her reason for being, her purpose in this world. She would tell you how she didn’t believe a single person when they paid her a compliment; how she would look for the telltale signs of lying in their eyes. She would tell you about the parts of her life she was ashamed of; she would open up like a sunflower facing the west, but only because you couldn’t look her in the eyes, while reading the truths.

She was afraid of waking up, yet she was afraid of falling asleep. She was neither black, nor white, but rather a shade of grey; the in-between that everyone wanted but never had. Except, the indecisiveness bogged her down, daily. She was a deck of cards, missing the aces; a picture book devoid of illustration. She was a kaleidoscope of misnomers and inaccuracies; A quilt, weaved out of scars and song lyrics. A mermaid in a sea of tears; a mythical creature trapped in-between the pages of a fairy tale. She was Cinderella twenty minutes too late; she was an eccentric princess in a standard kingdom. Yet, picking up the pen could make her feel like a Deity, a Goddess with words. She was invincible, immortal, infamous. The flow of ink relieved her failures, but revealed her uncertainties. She became an unsolicited hero for the masses of outcasts; the chief of outsiders.

She was undiscovered greatness, nestled in the shell of a girl. She was all these things, but never is.