The Biographical Rendering of a Girl in Diguise

She always spoke a little louder than she needed to, because when her green eyes sang with the hypnotic hum that her voice attempted to resonate, she was something like a spotlight on a blackened stage. In an effort to continuously redefine herself, to continuously redefine herself, continuously redefine herself, redefine herself, herself, she manipulated careful psychotic breakdowns while she smiled in an over sized t-shirt that she pretended someone left in her bed the night before. She was a virgin with the mentality of a slut. When she snuck downstairs, quietly on a Tuesday night, and opened the door to continue her love affair with nicotine and rebellion, she would make herself coffee and stand, her bare feet pressing hard against the marble floor, and stare at the multiplicity of her face in the reflection of the windows. Holding a joint, or the hand of this week’s squeeze, she desperately pushed to become the difference. She was a question mark that read like an exclamation point. The sun never shone bright enough and the rain never poured hard enough and the wind never blew strong enough to actually change the way she looked; but she rendered it all useless when she decided not to question her physicality. She was good enough, truthfully, but she’d pretend not to know.