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Some days, I sit on my bed, trapped, captive of my own inadequacy,
my hysteria a rising panicky whimper that I long to banish: a
characteristically feminine weakness. I am a loser; a reject in a
world that fears rejection. The acid in my soul, undiluted by
affection, disintegrating my life. My thick skin of childish
naiveté shed, revealing raw inflamed amorphous id. My flaccid
former covering haunts my trust. It is a frilly pink contraption
inflicted by my mother, resurrected. I cringe and shrink inwards,
easing in a CD to numb my already dulled senses, resigned and accustomed to the grasping grief for something unattainable but convinced that a little indulgence will soothe the raging inner child. Uses its wiles to masquerade me as a hedonistic MTV temptress. The music, preaching girl power, is accusatory, denouncing my failure to succeed as the singer and all those nice popular girls at school have, and my tainted admiration reminds me of all my aspirations, of the expectations crowding my soul, compressing me. My love for my parents. No, I only love you whom I cannot be seen to care for. The tears are staining my virginal pillow; I long to hold you in my arms. And I know that without you, I am lost.
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Alex
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