Six years old, she climbs onto the counter-top, peering into her reflection. “Mommy!” She gasps! “Is that me?”.
Ten years old, she finds her older sister’s magazines laying on the floor. Flipping page after page, she stares at unrealistic expectations of her curiously, as she will follow them blindly as she grows older.
Fourteen years old, braces secured tightly to her teeth to fix a flaw no one notices anyways. Acne covering her face – claiming it as its own as she desperately tries to hide it with cheap makeup thrown at her by friends.
Seventeen years old, and a mask of makeup, clothed in styles she knows will allow acceptation, too scared to show individuality because if it wasn’t mainstream it wasn’t needed. She crumbles behind a wall of “perfection”. She doesn’t need to speak, her eyes cry out: