I am a girl. Rarely do I see my own face because I wear a beautiful mask. I could trade these robes for rags and this jewelry for chains, and not a difference would be made. I live a lie every day. I wake up dreaming of love and looking for hope, but I see only cold stares and dead eyes.
People desire my life. They covet my standing, but I stand on a wire over a vast and raging sea.
I wish I had wings to fly. I could throw myself from the balcony and for a moment feel like an eagle in the air. Fear holds me back, but his grip isn’t nearly as strong as the desperate cling of hope.
I exist, and there must be a reason.
When I look in the mirror, I see weakness. I see a dove trapped in a beautiful cage. Helpless and angry. Her wings grow weaker every day.
My life hangs on a fragile string. Many are the times that my tormentors dangle death in front of me. They send a gust of wind to blow me off the bridge of life. They send tempest waves to crush me against the rocks. Still, I hold my head high and let my feelings grow dead to them.
I strain my eyes and inch myself taller in hope that I would eventually be able to see over the wall that traps me. I reach my arms high, leaving myself vulnerable as the wind and the fear cut through me like blades, as I pray that someone would just grab my hands and pull me away from the flames that scorch and burn my feet.
I abide in the eye of the storm watching my emotions rage like a tempest. Just like my smile, I am dead to it. I built a wall around my heart a long time ago, but I long to be freed.
I see others around just like me, but they embrace the cage that holds them. Long have I tried, but I cannot.
People are fascinating. They hide their eyes from the truth. They go forward blindly choosing to believe a beautiful lie, believing that life is joyful if you are rich. Life is precious if you are powerful. I have neither riches nor power, but the men I see in possession of these things are miserable.
At night, I sit in darkness. There I take off my mask and lay it carefully on my desk so that it does not shatter, for it grows more fragile every day. I turn to the mirror and observe the scars that mar my skin. I run my fingers over them and remember their cause. Scars so deep that I had nearly bled out.
I then bind up the new gashes that I could soon add to my collection of scars.
I sometimes wonder how much blood I have left to give.
A small remedy lies in this cage. It is the only one as only I would know. I have friends. I speak to them every day. They abide on my shelf on the other side of a paper darkened with ink. I cannot reach them, nor can they speak. But I can hear them so much louder than any voice. Their words comfort me, and I am faithful to read them.
My life is not my own, so I choose to have many lives. My body is present here, but I live between the pages of another world.