When she cries, you try to ignore it.
It’s difficult, of course. Most people find it unbearable to hear a young girl sob, but you’ve learned to bear it. You don’t have a choice; nothing you do will ever make her stop. She’s been crying for as long as you can remember, relentlessly reminding you of everything you’ve done. And who else is to blame for her tears? Who else would listen to a girl’s grief until her crying becomes nothing more than the haunting lullaby that lets you sleep each night?
When her mother pleads to see her, you have to lie. You tell her that the girl’s been gone a long time, though you know that’s far from the truth. She’s there, every night, sitting at the foot of your bed, hands pressed to her eyes. And part of you is relieved, because you know that if you saw her gaze....those bright hazel eyes, filled with confusion and pain that only a child’s can hold..you’d shatter.
But when it comes to your own mother, you lie. If you told her the truth, told her the girl hadn’t left your side, her gaze would never let go. She’d stare into your eyes, dissecting every piece of you until you were nothing but a pile of broken bones and the remnants of love she once had. Her hatred would sink deep, nestled in the space between your ribs, and she would mourn the loss of her child, crying about how you killed her baby. How could you do it? She was just a little girl.
Sometimes, when you look into the mirror, it’s her you see. Her empty eyes, hollowed out by the weight of stolen time, and you fear yours look just the same. Has it all been in vain? Are you just as empty?
You reach up to touch the mirror, but it’s her small hand that presses against yours, and that’s when you break. Beneath the ashes of your mother’s love lies guilt. All you ever wanted was for her to hold you the way she once held her daughter. But somewhere along the way, you blurred the line between happiness and being loved, only to discover that they are never the same thing. Now, you’re stuck, back where you started: silently praying you could erase the parts of yourself you believe are unlovable.
The mirror becomes a graveyard, holding all the words you can’t bring yourself to say.
After a night spent running from your fears, numbing yourself with alcohol and marijuana, you stagger back to that same mirror, the one you’ve faced for years. And when you look at her, you realize you can’t separate yourself from her anymore. Is this why your mother looks at you with such disgust? Is it because every time she sees you, she’s reminded of the child she thinks you’ve killed?
The scissors in your hand feel heavy, just like they did all those years ago. It’s not about the length of your hair...it’s about the way you look, the way you resemble her and not yourself. Even now, after all this time, you’re still trying to escape her.
