Pastel

I know you see me. I know you have done it, as have I.

Casement, polished screens, permit you to snatch a view of yourself. Questions arise. Is my hair up to the standard, makeup flawless. All wedged within the cracks of your teeth? Reassurance fulfills the heart conscious that the face has not suddenly morphed into nonrecognition. Just a taste. The beautiful pastel you want to witness.

The main course; the mirror. Reflect the acclaimed image of importance; the face, hair, body, clothes, shoes. It diligently apprehends the detail. Scrutinize if it will. Slant against the wall, elongate the upper body view. Become lost in a world where each eyelash depicts a tree branch, every pore equaling the mighty canyon, peach fuzz seen as carpet.

Let you stop there.

Eyes ever so accustomed to discover the imperfections. Drawn to everything one deems to be not beautiful. Goggle with content, the deformity aflame in the mind. With each passing moment, it is all still there. That petite red spot on your face. With each passing moment it becomes more ominous within the mind. It is no bigger than a freckle. Fooled. The beautiful pastel you want to witness.

Unable to leave the beauty of your reflection, or lose the will to live. The individual scouring, you become lost.

Not today.

Create the journey. Eyes become wide, sandwiched between dreams and the beckoning calls. Do not look to the mirror so often. Paint the concept of perfection and beauty on the blank canvas that you have deemed satisfactory. Truly kill the insecurities ; simply let them go. Bury and suppress them. Although, thought of again at nighttime.

You keep looking down, you keep glimpsing down. It kills to realize that with the slight lift of your head, reflections could be seen.

The mental sense of exposure and rawness fills the heart as you travel. An absence of flawless skin, baby hairs explode, features do not seem to be a piece to this puzzle. Mundane and extraneous, however, buried in the heart. Feeling a little out of place, as you witness the beauty around. Society.

“Are you sure it’s covered up?”

The more you ponder the blemish the deeper it manifests in your brain, evolving. Everyone must be gaping at this atrocity. Everyone must be viewing my body. Looking. Critiquing. Your ideal image digs at the heart. Who is looking?; a worry of what is upon. The thought stops the footsteps proceeding.

The beauty of pastel. Sunshine seeps through the cracks. Instead of a mental tug of war between worrying about appearance and looking into the mirror, you walk away from the voices; drown.

The mirror that reflects.

You, unable to decipher, if the looking glass portrayed a vision of reality or magnified distortions of your own vulnerabilities.

The soft glow shines, warping your face. Where is that critical girl? She retreated from her framed world of misconceived beauty, hanging there among the pastel dress, quieted in the murmurs of her own judgement.