She sits alone in the dark, tears pooling onto her pillow. The grey satin that she wishes she had catches in the moonlight, leaving the dark spots to glisten angrily from the bed. Each night she follows the same ritual. She follows it so close you’d think it was a religeon.

When the bright sun rose in the morning, still she sat, unhappily awaiting the golden light that filtered through her dainty -and dirty- drapes in long, sharp streaks. The birds began to sing to one another, and the girl found herself standing at her closet. The evenly spaced white hangers showed off all the beautiful outfits she didn’t have. How she yearned to see pastels and greys puddled around her ankles.

Next came the makeup she used sparingly, which she sat on the floor and carefully dusted on. She pulled a smile out of her pocket and unfolded it like a strict businessman would open his black briefcase. She leaves her room and passes her parents’ room. Her mother lays in bed, forever broken. Mouth open, mascara crusted down her cheeks. She steps over her father, who passed out drunk lastnight on the kitchen floor.

Turning the squeaky front door’s chipped golden knob, she steps out into the fresh air. Where last week’s pizza has been picked up, where the sun gushes over her, and where she feels bound, strapped in, and restrained.

She smiles into the day, she knows she’s not really happy. She knows she’s not who she says she is. But that doesn’t matter- as long as they don’t find out how things are at home. She’d be embarrassed, she knows this for sure.

Her friend with the pretty hair jogs to her side, slowing to a walk. She smiles, because that’s what she has to do to be seen as normal. She’ll spend the rest of her day doing well in her classes, and whispering to her friend about the cute boys. When she goes home she’ll try her hardest to clean the house and wash her laundry. She’ll close off the day by making a nice meal for her mother and she’ll go to sleep without the appreciation she deserves.

I know. Because that girl is me.