The remains of her middle school years--
from the times of precarious stacks of dog-eared YA paperbacks,
and walls plastered thick
with boy band posters waving edges that are worn and bent,
and spiral-bound journals hoarding tragic love stories
starring some boy she always knew she could never have.
The result of a toxic chemical imbalance
Left her embarrassed to be seen,
To be beheld by anyone other than those
who knew her truth and the depth of her dreams.
Who wouldn't judge her for the way the bumps multiplied,
And for the oily skin that despised the antidotes she supplied,
Proactively seeking treatment to also heal the pain on the inside.
Insecurity, an unfortunate immaterial wealth;
Always wishing to be anyone else.
She lacked the confidence to seek the help.
No one wants to smile at a girl who doesn't want to smile at herself.
Brown spots on brown skin
Mar her, make it hard for her to blend in.
Concealer to help conceal her,
she never felt comfortable in the confines of her own within.
Makeup to make her new,
to mask her imperfections from the world's view;
not to heal what's real, but to hide what's true.
She appears to disappear deep into herself
in hopes that no one would notice,
superficial layers to hide her shame from an artificial surface.
Examining her reflection to discover life’s true purpose,
Insecurity fading in and out of focus.
Could be picture perfect but you know she’d never know it.
There may be beauty in her growth, but always thorns among the roses.