|revealing, skeleton-like edison bulb|
I wrote this piece a year and a half ago. The prompt was "caught up in the image."
Standing naked under a single bare light bulb, she was exposed. There were no props, no masks to offer a shred of private dignity or security. Her soul was stripped of facades. What happened to the phony veneer of the window dressing she wore? A pile of fabric lay crumpled at her unprotected feet.
Unfolding vulnerability was not part of her being. Was it really anyone’s? Perfection was the desired portrait, unblemished and flawless; performing like a horse or pony in the circus, always jumping through hoops and carrying out tricks at another’s whim.
Caught up in the image painted over her life, she struggled to fracture the confines of other’s applause.
Under the divulging fluorescent, statuesque stillness enveloped her in quietness. The deafening silence screamed in her mind of fear and inability, she stood suspended. She was numb, frozen in time and place, unable to move. Maybe the quicksand of approval would swallow her ever so slowly, trapping the fragments and debris.
Nakedness reveals flaws, disfigurements and weakness. Impeccable perfection glosses over the richly etched character and patina. Letting go in full abandon, she raises her arms high, straining for the single bare light bulb and its exposing clarity.
How often am I this girl?
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