We share the same face. Hair of gold. Eyes of blue. My mind set has always been in a different place. Like mother like daughter. Why couldn’t it be that way? My sister has auburn hair, and freckles scattered across her face, the total opposite of what is my mother’s and my saving grace. Yet, they connect so much better, their planets align, forming a bond. Why can’t I have that with her? I use to love her as a child. She use to make me smile, laugh in her presences. Since the day he left, the day his head smacked right dab against that telephone pole, she’s never been the same. I can’t even imagine what she imagines from that night.
The fright. The loneliness that kept her for those two long years. Still. Why couldn’t she keep on adoring me? Her face. I’m her. I look through the glass and find the face as comfort, but also hate, because I know that we gravitate to towards the same men, the same mistakes. If I end up like her, I’ll die. Something tragic maybe, gun point, pills, slit wrists maybe, I just know I won’t end up the way she’s ended up. Cardboard façade. A fantasy of perfect home life gone wrong. I won’t burn out like that. My story refuses to settle.
I will grow up into something amazing, live in a city with lights and action. Do something big. Not stay small, never stay small, stray from the tiny insignificance that is suburbia. I will become a well known writer, a well known something, never a well known housewife, like she. I will fly from these roots, escape these boots of hardworking citizen, and live in a nice house, have a dreamlike boyfriend, and relish in the fact that I am finally complete. If only it was that simple. The darkness sweeps over me. Arrogant stares by the ones that are suppose to care for you, love you unconditionally. I want to be intelligent, I want to excel, become what she wants me to become, but the transformation will not proceed. Auburn hair, freckle splatters, consume the scene. She makes her proud, I make the scowl on her face turn permanent.
The wrinkles crease in her skin. If I could be like her I would. If I could trade places with her. I’m the pointless beauty, decaying in my skin. While she’s the intellectual prize that hangs high on our mother’s lips. The depression sinks, and I feel worthless and rotten, allowing anything to enter me, allowing anything to take me away. Because I’m no one but her. I’m the blonde haired, wonder that is her. I will fall in the chamber of routine. I’ll become her closest friend, when her success leaves her. I’ll be the one to stay with her as she rots in her skin. While the other just wins and wins. Living in an expensive house, with her loyal spouse. I’ll be with you, Mother, making sure you’re okay, after everything you say. The daggers you have stuck in me will stay, a physical remembrance of the years spent alone. I want to love you. I wish you could love me.
I sink into the memories of you holding me in your arms, keeping me from harm. I was your beauty, your love. Now I’m the thing that frightens you, frustrates you to no end. I miss how we were. I wear your face, but that’s it, you see, I’m not what you want, only what you see. That girl you use to be. I wish I knew that girl, Mother. The girl without the stern look in her eye, the girl whom could feel a mind altering high. I wish we could be friends, communicate, understand. Alas, so it can not be. I am me, and you are you. Forever strewn around the blanket that is the covering of our faces.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.
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