“Pretty” reminds me of piano keys. Of summer evenings when the air kisses your bare shoulders as you lounge on the porch with a glass of no-longer-cold iced tea.
It reminds me of lace against a bare throat, delicate and soft and fluttering with every breath you take.
Of footprints in the bare sand of a beach, right before the foam smoothes it clean again.
“Pretty” reminds me of a million things: a million moments of ethereal, gauzy, unfulfilled possibilities.
Of pressing trembling hands against glass windowpanes as your older sister, resplendent in a floaty, pink princess gown, walks across the lawn at three in the morning wearing the tiara and sash that proclaim she has been crowned Prom Queen.
Of turning the volume on your headphones up so loud you begin to feel numb, and trying hard to fall asleep as your mother sobs quietly down the hall while your father stalks out the door. (It’s been going on for so long you have lost count of the number of times they have argued, or even what they fight about.)
It reminds me of the boy you like who smiles across the room at you, but wouldn’t dream of actually kissing you; a minor amusement until he finally woos the big-chested, bleached-blonde, fake-beauty two seats behind you.
It’s like the time I stood naked in front of the mirror at home, and wondered how a person such as me is allowed to exist.
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