It's as if she glistens in the sun. As soon as the dawn breaks over the dim horizon, she comes alive. She leaves in her wake a trail of light, a sight parallel by no other. Her every movement seemed to flow like melted gold, graceful and calm. She seemed to glow, polished to perfection daily, as to show no flaws. She was golden. Adored by all for her grace, her quick wit, and her sharpened intelligence among other seemingly flawless qualities. She was taught at a young age to be constantly put together. No one could ever see her uneasy or underdressed or god forbid unhappy. So she was groomed, polished and painted until she became what they wanted, golden.
She was, however, anything but. For every forced smile there was a free flowing tear, every laugh an internalized plea for help. On the outside she seemed golden but it was a cheap gold. She was trapped, touched by King Midas, cursed to confinement in a precious shell of herself. When she smiles you can almost see the pain she carries in her crystallized eyes. There are cracks in her mold, cracks that if pushed could free her; but she scrambles to fill them, desperately trying to hide her imperfections in fear that they would not be accepted. Depression was not supposed to be a word in her vocabulary but as of late it seemed to be the only word she truly knew. Somewhere along the road to perfection she has lost her true self and what was once clean inside had been tarnished, and the polish long gone. It seems as if the golden ones are never truly golden. More often than not they are covered in rust.
