by Francesca Klein
A mirror extends in front of me, no, a mirror taunts me. I try to stay away from mirrors because they reveal the truth of my pillowy body and shatter my fantasy of normality. I pull my stringy black hair back and away from my sweaty forehead into a ponytail, fitting that I would make my hair equate to a horses ass. Puffed cheeks almost eclipse my brown eyes. A musty Polaroid depicting my cherub-like frame as a baby is stuck between glass and it’s frame. I am sitting on a too small squeaky wooden stool in front of my vanity, my mother’s mother’s empty perfume bottles and angel figurines meld into the neighbors’ mariachi music and archaic framed photos stare back. A steaming pot of dumplings reside on the stove, a broken girl resides in her own gravity.
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