Letters To You.
One Of One.
For just once, she wants to be beautiful.
And not the fake tan and heavy make-up beautiful. She wanted the kind of beautiful that you can't escape. The kind that lets you take one look, and then forces you to take another. She thought that maybe she could be that beautiful for just one night. And one night was all she wanted. She wanted one night of dancing, partying and laughing. One night of compliments, friends and feelings. And maybe just one night of secrets, kisses and love.
She has it all planned, she just needs that one thing.
So she cancels everything for that day, letting her mother nag about chores, her father complain about her not eating and her little brother bang on her locked door. Because she thinks if she takes enough time she will get this right. She starts by taking a shower, brushing her teeth, and then she decides it's time.
So she begins, sitting down in front of her mirror, staring straight at her reflection with scrutinizing eyes.
She critisizes every aspect of herself, starting with her face. She cleans it, scrubbing it red. She washes every trace of imagined dirt until only her raw skin is left. She looks in horror at her face's bare texture, harsh and unattractive. Her skin is uneven and scarlet, her lips too thin, her eyes too small, her nose too big. But she can fix that. Her steady and gifted hand is necessary for smoothing her skin until it looks translucent, and outlining her eyes so gently she thinks they looked almost natural.
And now she sits back, and stares at the mirror once again, eyes still searching for imperfections.
She fixes her hair and retouches her lipstick, then rummages through her closet, wishing for once she had a best friend she could invite over, and trust her opinion of what to wear. But she doesn't, so she guesses, picking out her favourite dresses. But maybe that one's not right. And this one is too short, and this too long. And this is the wrong colour. And maybe it would be better if she wore jeans? But no, it must be a dress. And there's just one left.
And it seems like no time at all when her time is almost up.
So she takes one long look in her full length mirror, and wonders should she change her dress one last time. Maybe apply more eyeliner. But then her phone rings and it's now or never. And when she looks from her ringing phone back to the reflecting glass set on her wall she thinks she really does look beautiful. And maybe this time it's enough. And when she hops in some girl who offered to drive her there's car, she thinks maybe this is the night, and maybe this girl and her friends could become her best girlfriend and her own friends.
And then she gets there, and it's all different.
These girls are stupid and immature, and all immediately reach for the drink. They mock others and only stick to themselves. They don't dance, or party, or laugh. They aren't her new friends. And she takes another look around and realizes there's no-one familiar here. But that doesn't deter her, because this is the night. And she looks beautiful, and everyone's looking at her. The spotlight is on her but she can look past it enough to see him smiling at her. And she smiles back, thinking that even if she can't have the night with friends like she thought, at least she can have that night of secrets and kisses. If he keeps smiling at her, maybe even love.
But then a girl walks past and her smile turns frozen as she watches her sit on his lap and whisper something in his ear.
And the light seems too harsh, and the stares too penetrating. They were laughing at her. She looked a mess, her hair wrecked and her make-up digustingly thick. The dress was too short, her heels too high. And then she looked again, and no-one was staring at her. No-one was even looking at her. And the boy was walking out with a prettier girl on his arm, and she was left alone at a party in a house she didn't know, and she didn't know how to get home, or what to do next.
So she called a taxi, and it took all the money she had in her purse to drive to her sister's apartment and cry because she wasn't home.
And at three o'clock in the morning her sister and her friend walk into their building to find a sleeping girl at their door, tears streaking down her face. And when they woke her up she cried again because her sister had such a good life, and knew how to keep things under control and get any guy she wanted. Her sister was beautiful. But the girl was just like any other girl, just like those girls that had offered her a lift. She'd never get anything because she was the same, she wasn't prettier or better than anybody. She was left to life of being secluded and laughing at others for fear of being laughed at herself.
So when the girl got home she decided she didn't want to always be the same.
She wanted to be different. And she knows that you got her other notes because she watches you read them from her locker. And she wants you to know that she just wanted you to like her back. She realizes you couldn't do that without knowing who she was, so she's writing you this last letter. But she's starting to feel cold against the warm blood, and she can't remember how she's supposed to send this to you. And now it's too late.
I'm gone away.
And not the fake tan and heavy make-up beautiful. She wanted the kind of beautiful that you can't escape. The kind that lets you take one look, and then forces you to take another. She thought that maybe she could be that beautiful for just one night. And one night was all she wanted. She wanted one night of dancing, partying and laughing. One night of compliments, friends and feelings. And maybe just one night of secrets, kisses and love.
She has it all planned, she just needs that one thing.
So she cancels everything for that day, letting her mother nag about chores, her father complain about her not eating and her little brother bang on her locked door. Because she thinks if she takes enough time she will get this right. She starts by taking a shower, brushing her teeth, and then she decides it's time.
So she begins, sitting down in front of her mirror, staring straight at her reflection with scrutinizing eyes.
She critisizes every aspect of herself, starting with her face. She cleans it, scrubbing it red. She washes every trace of imagined dirt until only her raw skin is left. She looks in horror at her face's bare texture, harsh and unattractive. Her skin is uneven and scarlet, her lips too thin, her eyes too small, her nose too big. But she can fix that. Her steady and gifted hand is necessary for smoothing her skin until it looks translucent, and outlining her eyes so gently she thinks they looked almost natural.
And now she sits back, and stares at the mirror once again, eyes still searching for imperfections.
She fixes her hair and retouches her lipstick, then rummages through her closet, wishing for once she had a best friend she could invite over, and trust her opinion of what to wear. But she doesn't, so she guesses, picking out her favourite dresses. But maybe that one's not right. And this one is too short, and this too long. And this is the wrong colour. And maybe it would be better if she wore jeans? But no, it must be a dress. And there's just one left.
And it seems like no time at all when her time is almost up.
So she takes one long look in her full length mirror, and wonders should she change her dress one last time. Maybe apply more eyeliner. But then her phone rings and it's now or never. And when she looks from her ringing phone back to the reflecting glass set on her wall she thinks she really does look beautiful. And maybe this time it's enough. And when she hops in some girl who offered to drive her there's car, she thinks maybe this is the night, and maybe this girl and her friends could become her best girlfriend and her own friends.
And then she gets there, and it's all different.
These girls are stupid and immature, and all immediately reach for the drink. They mock others and only stick to themselves. They don't dance, or party, or laugh. They aren't her new friends. And she takes another look around and realizes there's no-one familiar here. But that doesn't deter her, because this is the night. And she looks beautiful, and everyone's looking at her. The spotlight is on her but she can look past it enough to see him smiling at her. And she smiles back, thinking that even if she can't have the night with friends like she thought, at least she can have that night of secrets and kisses. If he keeps smiling at her, maybe even love.
But then a girl walks past and her smile turns frozen as she watches her sit on his lap and whisper something in his ear.
And the light seems too harsh, and the stares too penetrating. They were laughing at her. She looked a mess, her hair wrecked and her make-up digustingly thick. The dress was too short, her heels too high. And then she looked again, and no-one was staring at her. No-one was even looking at her. And the boy was walking out with a prettier girl on his arm, and she was left alone at a party in a house she didn't know, and she didn't know how to get home, or what to do next.
So she called a taxi, and it took all the money she had in her purse to drive to her sister's apartment and cry because she wasn't home.
And at three o'clock in the morning her sister and her friend walk into their building to find a sleeping girl at their door, tears streaking down her face. And when they woke her up she cried again because her sister had such a good life, and knew how to keep things under control and get any guy she wanted. Her sister was beautiful. But the girl was just like any other girl, just like those girls that had offered her a lift. She'd never get anything because she was the same, she wasn't prettier or better than anybody. She was left to life of being secluded and laughing at others for fear of being laughed at herself.
So when the girl got home she decided she didn't want to always be the same.
She wanted to be different. And she knows that you got her other notes because she watches you read them from her locker. And she wants you to know that she just wanted you to like her back. She realizes you couldn't do that without knowing who she was, so she's writing you this last letter. But she's starting to feel cold against the warm blood, and she can't remember how she's supposed to send this to you. And now it's too late.
I'm gone away.