"And sometimes, in the black of night, I breathe out her name into nothing. I never realize that I do though. She is my breath."
She walks in my dreams. Passes by me like a shadow. I can never quite be sure who she is. I feel her heart beat in my veins. It melds with mine, both slowly becoming synchronized. My heart matches hers. Hers began it all.
The dreams take place in my head but I see everything.
There is a black box with a glass wall lining the back. A girl sits inside of this box on a white chair. A mirror and a dresser stand adjacent to her, far down the wall. She gets up to pace occasionally, probably to think about her life or why she is trapped in this lonely space. Sometimes she's even driven to insanity, her mind controlling her body as her breathing becomes labored, her hands shake, and eyes fill with tears as dread fills her mind.
I often get the impression, by inspecting the girl in the box, that she thinks she's going more insane than she is. I can tell it's in her head. She thinks everyone can see, but all I see is her widened eyes and short puffs of breath staining the glass. If you didn't look in on her when she wasn't like this, you would only think her to be a girl with bright eyes and an excited disposition.
She sees every bump or imperfection on her body, but I find myself seeing the opposite. Her skin is the perfect contrast for the constellations of freckles and stretch marks gracing her body. She is the definition of perfect to me.
To her, nothing will ever be quite right. She begins beating herself up for not being the perfection she sees on billboards or on TV. Once she starts the criticisms, she can't go back. I try to shake the images of her trying to change her body from my head by squeezing my closed eyes even tighter, but the image floods my whole being. I want to reach down and pluck her figure from the box. I want to get her out, want to tell her she's the reason I can sleep at night and wake up in the morning without remorse.
I get frantic in these times, subconsciously thrashing in my bed, blankets wrapping around my body, encasing me in the horror that she feels she isn't good enough. I cry out her name but she can't hear me. Her black box is too thick, the glass is faced the wrong way. I am only a helpless spectator.
It was during the judging times, when the dreams had just begun, that I knew this girl needed to be shown love. She always had the most beautiful smile on her face but when she would look away, it would fade from her eyes. I knew she needed someone who could show her how she must appreciate herself, show her that she is the most breath-taking, awe-inspiring, magnificent person to grace this earth.
I became so obsessed with trying to find someone to love her that I completely forgot that I was there, watching her.
After a time of watching and waiting and searching, I found it. It was me who had to love her, and I would do it willingly indeed.
I have loved her ever since, visiting the box every night in my dreams and every day in my thoughts.
This strong girl. This girl who isn't willing to stand back and simply watch it happen. She's the one in the action, trying to clot the wound or find the cure. I think she does that so often that she forgets she exists too, except for when she stands all alone at her mirror and spits on her image. The image that I see reflected as pulchritudinous. She forgets that she has to think about herself. I think when she finally does that, she'll break through that glass.
This girl, striving for perfection, no longer needs to do so, for I love her. And she, the girl trapped in that glass box of solitude is me, and I finally love myself.
