Wasteland

Poor little rich girl

I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m the kind of girl who gets what she wants. I’m a real mess, but I’m also really good at covering it up when I want to. I’m a sweet sweet angel. I’ll smile and I’ll wink, give the boys the attention, they think they want. How do I do it? I have no idea. I’ll take one boy out and another one home. I know how to move my body and I know how to dress it. It’s a gift, it’s a curse. Take as you want - I use it because I can, not because I want to. Double standard? Sure, but hey - didn’t I mention I was a mess-up?

As the little angel I was, I didn’t say a word. I was a marionette.

‘Yes, daddy’

‘Oh how lovely’

‘I’m so excited’

I was numb. But I was OK. I didn’t know any better. I wouldn’t say that my childhood was bad, just... nothing special either. There’s no point in wishing another childhood, because that won’t happen - and it made me who I am today. The good and bad sides.

I remember sitting in front of the mirror - I did that a lot. First I applied concealer, I wouldn’t want anyone to see my sleepless nights. Then powder, damn I hated those freckles. Those white powder clouds, blurring the image of me in the mirror. I loved that intense contrast my white skin created with my reddish hair. I felt special and beautiful. I felt different, even though I was just a clone of every other pretty girl in the magazines. Then I applied a fine line of black, to embellish my heavy eyelids. I wanted to look tough, sexy and what not. For the finishing touch; mascara – and lots of it. I wanted those long, thick black eyelashes to surround my deep blue eyes. I was pretty pleased, but I knew better. It was just a temporary pleasure, to be replaced any minute by something new.

Of course makeup wasn’t the only part of my façade. As an adolescent I was quite skinny, so of course I wanted to be curvier. Bit since skinny was my straw in life, I embraced it. I always did do a little extra to make my trademark stand out. I never had anorexia or anything; I just had a fixation with bustier and spandex’s. I did everything to look more slim, black clothes all the way – the only place I wore color, was my underwear and that color was red, more than once. Tight black pants, high as hell heels and a black blazer to finish the look. I looked cool and chic. Hot and sexy. With my dark look I was anonymous, but not anything you would forget in the near future. I was captivating and a sight for sore eyes. It was all fake, but damn did it feel real.

Today I don’t wear too much make up. I try to be the responsible adult I know I am. At least on the outside. It’s all about your appearance, a cover to protect your true self. Even as an insecure teenager, it’s possible to act confident – but it takes toil on you. At least it did on me.

I remember some night in a drunken haze, when some hipster boy asked me if there even was anything real about me anymore. I didn’t know what to answer. I had become so used to wearing a mask everyday and in long run I had just kept it on for too long and forgot who I really was. But sometime if you are lucky, someone comes along and shows us whom we really want be, who we should be. Roughly two months after that question Jas came in to my life. Jas was that person for me. I wish the hipster boy would have asked me again, and then I could give him a satisfying answer. I’m still no Mother Teresa, I still wear masks, but don’t we all? Now I just know when to take it off.

Mirrors have a tendency to bring out memories in me. You see your old scars, a flicker of who you used to be or even who you wanted to be. You know people always say that mirrors show you your real identity. But damn can those mirrors also lie. Still, that doesn’t stop me from having a million of them – I am a girl after all. There’s the full-size mirror in my walk-in closet where I choose my attires for the day. The bathroom mirror where I put on my makeup and transform myself from the just-got-out-of-bed girl to the ready-for-work girl. The various hand mirrors around the apartment and even the lesser pieces of broken mirror in my kitchen, creating an artistic dimension to the room. But my favorite mirror is the one in the hallway. It hangs proudly above the rustic antique black gone worn-grey table with all my necessities on it. A bowl with keys and several other weird things in it. A plant called something a never seem to be able to remember and my five most used shoes on the shelf below. Converse, boots, stilettos, ballerinas and wellington boots. The mirror itself is rectangular and hanging as long as the table in a horizontal position, the view only offers a reflection of my torso and face, but it’s the last look I get of myself before I go out to the real world. I see what other people, think they see and not the person inside.

The whole world is a stage. I am who need to be.