The mirror hanging, lifelessly has been contorted for some mysterious reason. As if a little girl placed pictures on her mirror, as if not to see herself for what she is...but what she only dreams of. I feel wonderfully content, with not being able to see myself, but to witness this unsteady girl continually cutting pictures from magazinges and pasting them everywhere. Pictures of friends that of which she greatly admires, and many acturesses, artists, along with the few famous role models from decades ago, in which only a young child dreams of being.

My face is soft to touch, and my hair as messy as a rats nest. But the reality of being me comes as a shock in which I experience-- I feel like flinging my almost eager to move boy off a cliff. Yet I still underestimate my own passive voice, and I don't believe my smile to be real.