My whole life I’ve been living with a different face. In my preschool self-portrait, in the moments I get the courage to look someone in the eye, when I drift off into my dreams, I am another person. My hair is dark, rich, and has a fullness to it that comes with the light scent of peaches. My eyes have grown round and warm to rest atop tanned cheeks without a single imperfection. I look like the me I wish I was. I feel beautiful, I am beautiful in those moments where I am not myself. I am friends with the models who grace everywhere I look, my winsome laugh draws men in. As I step out of the shower with the mirror fogged I am a sexy lithesome women, seductive and enchanting. In my dreams I see my beautiful face smile at a man whom I desire and that’s all it takes for him to be mine. I have no cares in this world for I am beautiful.

The pictures adorning my walls aren’t me, they can’t be. I don’t want them to be. I wish they weren’t. I want to fall back into my own creation where I am my true self, the me I want to be to the world. I pass my hand over my face hoping to grasp onto that full, smooth cheek but my fingers fumble over blemishes and the reality of me. The mirror clears and I’m left standing their naked with the reality of me. I want to submerge myself in that thick dream to emerge perfect and uncaring. I want to wake up and smile at myself and not fret over the new additions to my acne. I want to throw on a shirt and feel free rather than fret over my small bosoms. I want to smile at a boy and not worry over how my giant nose with protrude over my uneven smile. I want to look someone in the eye and see a beautiful girl looking back at me, not worried over her every flaw. I want so much to feel weightless in my skin but now I want to rip out of myself. I blow over the mirror to hide myself from the me in my brain. I put on makeup to fade the truth of myself that covers my face. I wait until darkness falls and I’m beautiful again.