Unbroken

Deep breath in... and out. In... and out.

These are the words I'm trying to keep barred into the front of my mind. A grand total of just five simple words. More so to keep other thoughts out, than to actually keep anything in. Just keep breathing normally. I'm fine. I'm okay is what I try to tell myself with each rise and fall of my chest.

But the longer I stare in the mirror the more I feel as though I need to undress. Change my clothes. I need a long sleeved shirt. Something that covers my wrists and forearms. This tank top is kind of ugly anyway. And oh my god, what was I thinking when I bought these shorts? No, no. They're way too short. I need a pair of jeans. There's no way I could wear this in public. I give myself a mental high five for catching my mistake before publicly embarrassing myself in this... clown suit I've put on.

Reaching around to pull my top off, I catch sight of the clock. 2:17. Crap. I was supposed to leave two minutes ago. I need to be at the park square by 2:30. Beneath the flowery pink tree. Siting on a bench, pretending to play a part I know I cannot... the part of perfection. There's no time to change. S***.

I sigh. Who am I kidding? I love this outfit. I love the way the simple navy blue tank top complements my figure. The way my bare arms look femininely strong. The shorts, in my favorite color, a bright red, look great with the narrow black make-shift belt I've slipped through the loops. My black sun glasses and red bracelets flawlessly complement the clothes I've stupidly chosen to wear. The colors look amazing, perfectly matching my make up. This is the perfect outfit for a day like today... for someone else.


Not for me. Not for the girl who has everything to hide. But it's too late now. I need to go. I can't be late. I've already messed up. He'll see me, more of me than he's ever seen before, the real me- everything I've tried so hard to hide- he'll take it all in and regret every word he's ever said. He'll regret and break every promise he made to me. I don't see the point of going if he'll just walk away. I know by showing up in this I'll disappoint. A lie by omission is still a lie. I don't have the heart to stand him up, but oh my god I wish I did.

Refusing to take a second glance in the mirror and trying to hold in a breath that I know will turn to a sob if I let it out, I reach for my knapsack that sits to the right of the front door. My red, high top Converse sneakers squeak quietly against the linoleum floor as I open my apartment door and quickly descend down the stairs. My head is down low, I let my hair fall into my face, hiding it, as I listen to the tap-tap-tap of my sneakers hitting each step. Down two flights of stairs I swiftly go.

As I reach the exit door I stop. I am so ashamed. I'm not good enough to be wearing this. I am ruined. I'm broken, and I am about to walk out and let the whole world see it. I force my arms to extend and push the heavy door open. It whines in the same annoying way it always does, begging for some WD-40. Louder, though, is the voice in my head telling me this is a mistake. The things I've done to make myself feel like this were all mistakes. The fact that I didn't tell him before is a mistake. Walking out this door will be a mistake, it screams.

As I step out onto the concrete my legs feel somewhat like Jell-O and I stand for a moment, letting the door slowly swish and whine closed behind me. The sun is so bright today, shining overhead, and the air so alive. I feel rays of light warm my hair, and I adore the cool breeze flowing against my skin. It's like a gentle poem wrapping around me and easing away my fears. But only for a moment. My head snaps up knowing I need to get a move on, and my skin prickles in goose bumps as I step forward with a jolt. The iron block is back in the pit of my stomach.

I might as well have strapped weights to my ankles before leaving. Each step I take is excruciatingly heavy. I need to walk faster to make it to the meeting point on time, but my thoughts weigh me down. My knapsack thuds gently against my back, creating a rhythm in harmony with the sound of my steps. The irregular, violent buzzing in my mind is a dark contrast to the peaceful scenery and sounds that surround me.

I don't know where my false sense of confidence came from last night. The thought that I could ever be beautiful. I'd like to know why I thought he could or ever would accept me like this. My body-- it's ruined, broken. Standing in the mirror of a boutique last night feeling like I could finally show myself was stupid. Not only stupid, but selfish. That's what I am; selfish. I don't deserve him, yet I've been holding him close with an iron fist, refusing to let go. Thinking I could somehow be good enough for him. No, I'm not. I'm not good enough, beautiful enough, funny enough, talented enough. I lower my head again, watching the cracks in the sidewalk flash by, take in the heavy scent of the Dunkin' Donuts I pass, and try to un-knot my stomach.

I know his favorite color, his favorite sport, his favorite team. I know the sports he plays, the drinks he likes, and what brand of cigarettes he smokes. If anyone asked me, I could tell them about the time when he was sixteen and had to sleep on a bench in the school yard after an “altercation” with his father. I know his height, eye color, and even his favorite shirt. I could talk about how he looks good in burgundy, and that his birthstone is Garnet. I know that he speaks three languages, and loves to laugh. I hate that he smokes, but love the way he blows smoke rings for me. I like that he doesn't know I have all his little habits and quirks memorized by heart. I know that when he realizes what I've hidden and leaves me... I'll be torn apart.

I always knew I'd be nervous, meeting him for the first time, but I didn't know I'd be devastated as well. The worst part is that it's by my own fault. Honesty is the best policy. Too bad I'm just now figuring that out. I always knew that when I saw his face in the sunlight, saw him in the flesh and not semi-distorted by a web cam, it would be the best moment of my life. How could I have known it would also feel like the end of it? All because of the clothes I've chosen to wear; because of one pair of short shorts and a tank top.

I'll be honest with him. When I see him. When I see the disappointment in his eyes and register the hurt that will be clearly written across his constantly expressive face. I'll apologize. That' what I have to do. I wont try to explain. There would be no point trying to defend my actions. My very selfish actions. I should have told him. This shouldn't have to be a surprise for him.

I take in a sharp breath, and raise my head slightly. The sudden movement is dizzying, and I catch sight of a street vendor selling drinks across the street. I need something to calm my stomach a bit, and maybe having a drink to stare down into will help me avoid eye contact with him. There are no cars coming, so I jay walk across the intersection and get in line, hoping that with only two people in front of me I'll be on my way again quickly.

I try to avoid drawing attention to myself, and turn my wrists inward as I drop my arms in front of my thighs, trying to cover as much skin as I can. I feel the little girl in front of me staring. When I glance up quickly I see that she's maybe about seven or eight, holding the hand of a father that's deep in conversation with the person in front of them. She has a green sundress on and a matching headband over her light, shoulder length brown hair. The little diamond earrings she wears sparkle as she tilts her head and smiles at me. I look back down, but again, I can feel her eyes shift to my legs. Her stare is like a razor, cutting deeply into my flesh. A feeling I know all too well.

“You're really pretty, you know.” She suddenly says, unexpectedly.

“Uh, what? I mean, um, thank you.” I stutter. I look at her with wide eyes, and she looks back with a nonjudgmental grin.

“For real. I like your bracelets.” She tells me. I shift my arm a little, and look down at the scars that cover it. The bracelets do barely anything to obscure the gruesomely torn flesh that has healed over in thick, pale lines. My thighs look the same. How can she not see these? I begin to mutter another half-hearted thank you as she speaks up again. “You're beautiful.” She shrugs before turning back around and hugging her father's legs as he orders her a strawberry ice cream.

Oh my god. What? My hand still shakes as I reach for my raspberry slushy a couple of minutes later. You're beautiful. The two words race through my mind over and over again. It's like a horrendous, broken record replaying dubstep through my brain at the speed of light. The two words shatter into pieces, and the shards stab at every place in my mind. No corner is left untouched. The splinters work their way into even the most secretive, hidden spots in my mind like daggers intent on the kill. You're beautiful. The phrase echoes through my head. Walking back across the street and continuing down another block in a near haze, I hear it again. You're beautiful.

No, no, she can't be right. But she just... the innocence in her voice, the sincerity and impartiality for society's standards makes me want to believe her. That one statement has blown me away. She saw me as I was and it didn't bother her. She looked at me without judgment. Withough discrimination. The way I've always wished to be looked at. That one little brown haired girl was honest.

My lips twitch upward the slightest bit. A small, involuntary movement, but once I feel the corners rise, I cant help it- I smile. Oh my god. I'm smiling. I'm beautiful. I still find the words hard to accept, but she said it. They're a real opinion, an honest thought. And that makes me laugh. I laugh. Oh my god, I tilt my head back and I laugh. If she thinks I'm beautiful, even with my wounds, why shouldn't I? If she can see me as I am, look deeper in just a moments time, shouldn't everyone be able to? Shouldn't I be able to?

Why can't everyone be as accepting? If a little girl in a random line, in the middle of a city on an average day can see something as simple as she did- that beauty comes in all shapes and forms, that past mistakes and decisions don't define a person- I think I should be able to go sit on a bench under a little pink tree in the park square and be accepted by a man that swears he loves me. And if he doesn't, then... it's not such a big loss after all.

I can see the park square. Butterflies beat around inside of me and my legs are weak, but I'm smiling. I love my outfit. It's sunny. This day is perfect. I think he loves me. I really do. But if he doesn't that's okay. Because there's someone else out there, someone other than me and my little brown haired girl that will be able to see I am unbroken.