Seeping Through

The thing is, I know this face in the mirror. I know this girl, with her bags packed, with her absolute conviction in the magic of clean slates, how she floats into new horizons, how she smiles. There's a buzz in her chest, you feel it swell, her entire being is electric and it's contagious, everyone adores a bright future. Her brown feet and white curls speak of a new character for the gallery, a new lifestyle to absorb, and oh, how happy she is, fitting her puzzle piece just right into the sunny jigsaw; she is hard to resist, and she knows it.

I stand here staring at her with the itch just under my skin, wanting so much to run with her, to leap and not look back, to believe in the magic, pretend I am invincible and never cried, never bled, never feared. I want perpetual browned skin and excited eyes, I want to pretend I don't miss you and that I'm fine with what I made of my life, so much is mirrors and smoke these days, it's hard to know my own name when it calls me.

A mint green typewriter stands in the window. It is quiet, it does not smile, it does not make promises. But it stands there, every day, and waits until you are ready. You can run all you like, you can let yourself be seduced by the girl in the mirror. But the typewriter does not forget your name, does not stumble on your purpose. Did you put ink to paper today?

Good.