I wish that I were delicate. Like paper snowflakes gently cut with long and dainty fingers. I would like to move with tender intention, not leaving footprints, only a faint scent of faraway blooms. I wish that my hair was shiny and long, falling in naturally wavy tendrils which I could twist up into a messy bun, effortless. Pale shoulders and lofty little scoops under braless tank tops. Quiet and infinitely young and kind and soft as feathers and completely oblivious to my beauty. In my mind I am this girl. In the mirror I am someone I don’t recognize.
