cimorene

once she heard someone say that light can't exist without dark. she thought it sounded cool. going through the motions of hating pretty people, perfect days and her mother's well-meaning gestures (coffee, prom dress, stereo) is the easy part. going up stairs she trails her fingers on the bannister or the wall in the wide stairwell--there is never any dust--and closes her bedroom door, as if this can prevent her mother from coming in. that is easy too. and becasue it is so difficult to do this and not feel like a colored girl behind a black and white mask--and sometimes she slips, and thinks normal things--it is easy to hate herself. she draws on eyeliner one-handed, runs thin hands baggy with the remnants of pudginess through her one one glory, black and red hair that her mother pretends not to hate. she knows this, and it pleases her, like the welling jewel of blood where a safety pin, pushed too-carelessly through black gauze, pierces the skin of her waist. when she stares at herself in the mirror, black-white-red like death, she does not know whether she thinks she is ugly or whether she wants to think so.