There is a girl here.
She was laid out like a doll in a box— untouched by the world’s cruel elements, rough skin painted-over and frizzy hair held up into dated curls. Roses framed her like an angel. The crowd of spectators sat in cheap folding chairs, an occasional sob or squeak from strained plastic cutting through the thick silence. She wouldn’t recognize most of them even if her eyes miraculously fluttered open. She wore a dress; baby pink and frilly, glittery when the sun hit just right. Proof of life smoothed over with sandpaper. A glossy body sat in a glossy coffin, perfect and manufactured.
Covered up scars used to decorate those frail, gentle hands in jagged patterns; calluses from climbing trees and playing guitar and kitchen burns. They once cradled ladybugs and caterpillars, little seashells and old bones. Hands ablaze with the love of life, reduced to blue, ugly things smoothed over with lacquer that lay limply at her sides.
Evidence of life in dirt caked under her nails was easily scrubbed away, since her parents hated her acting so unbecoming. It was a luxury afforded to her brothers, never her. Not even in death. Slender, nimble fingers wove leafy stems into flower crowns for everyone she loved with the naive hope that they’d treat her kindly. She was only ever treated like a girl.
Her stomach was much too empty now, cinched in at the waist like the delicate fabric carved away chunks of her flesh and dignity. Bones still shone through, covered by a thin sheet of skin— an ugly sickness she was gifted by her father and middle school classmates. It was the only thing she couldn’t outrun.
She used to laugh. It was a beautiful, genuine sound that bubbled out of her. A blessing of unbridled joy. Her eyes crinkled into crescents and her whole body shook as she let out the loudest belly laughs at raunchy jokes from late-night TV, even if she was the punchline.
Her decaying legs were on full display. It felt dirty. Is this what her family thought of her? She exclusively wore baggy jeans or pajama pants. She’d run recklessly through lush forests, cut open by bloody thistles she’d pick out of herself in the lonely privacy of her room. She’d kick at any wild animal or man she felt threatened by. The girl made sure it always hurt. White heels were strapped to her feet. She couldn’t have gotten far in those.
If I peeled her eyes open, would they still be a soft gray? They were the comforting pitter-patter of thundering rain, puddles she’d splash in with no umbrella. They once sparkled alive with lightning and unsaid words; a gift from her mother, who got them from her mother, now glued shut forevermore. She is deprived of sight. Today it is a mercy.
Echoes of a girl exist in the cracks of Mother Earth’s foundation, the stems of flower crowns long expired, the laugh lines and messy haircuts, the bruises on her knees covered up like a sin. Who will remember her?
There is not a girl here.