“Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that the evils did to me, therefore, made me impure.”
Kneeling to pray, breathe, surrender, I peeked at my hands (as I got the feeling they’d become clouded). I opened my eyes to see them in an image I had never seen before. It was a picture of purity. I think about what pureness means to me often. I look at others and original examples of its purest form and ponder how on earth I could fit such a mold. How on earth I could be spotless, white, or even innocent of anything? I am by far none of those things on the same day, or I am everything but in five minutes. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that the evils did to me, therefore, made me impure. My response to the pain created distinguished stains I could never wash out. Never to be innocent of my decisions. It felt new, considering myself to be beautiful and not pained.
We hung up the phone, and I began to think about your rendition of yourself, “If someone like me could make it, you surely will.”
It was a confusing conversation. You were seeing me as beautiful. You did not see yourself the same. Someone like you? To me you were driven, loving, intelligent, so fucking real. Who was I? But for some reason or another, you saw me, at least that reflection of myself and believed it to be real. And for that single moment, as my knees began to ache and mimic the pattern of the floor, I saw me as someone like you.
Miss Parisia B.