In Defense of Pretty Things

It’s typical to see a girl my age wearing dresses filled with frills and bows in every shade of pink.

A group of them ran past us as I walked behind my brother. It was their embroidered red shoes that caught my eye. I had kept my head down, eyes on the ground. It caught my attention; I decided to get a better view. They were running freely, laughing with mirth. It wasn’t the first time I’d laid eyes on this view. There were plenty of them outside the garden walls. This is what children are supposed to be.

As I stood there and watched, with my black trousers and black coat, I grasped why I couldn’t be a child. I was strictly just a daughter. There was no time to be a child.

With my pitch-black clothes and a pitch-black heart, I know I am strong, but I am the weakest at home.

Home is where I am to be safe, not to be strong.

I was wrong, so I envied them.

On this day, in my second death, I live again. I became what I envied.

Frivolous dresses, a permanent smile, and my parents’ teachings to haunt me. This is what I am made of.

The world sees me as a child, and I’m condemned for it.