wanette bittencourt, district seven | finished, cb

Sometimes, I think about how lucky I am to live this life.

The cul-de-sac that surrounds my home is lined with fresh flowers, manicured lawns glisten with morning dew, porcelain yard statues strike curious poses. As far as I can see, there is only beauty and privilege here. Often, it feels like glass in the palm of my hand. A long time ago, I learned how to wield it without cutting myself on the edges. I am lucky to be here, to have what I have, and each day I strive to acknowledge that. My worst day could very well be someone else's best.

You'd think I'd be content, but I suppose the sword's second edge is the one that cuts the deepest. I compare my pain like trinkets, what excites me and what devastates me? The funny thing is, most of the other girls I've met during my pageants had no say in it. Their mothers said so, and so it was. I on the other hand have had always had to present my interests like a showcase, a presentation for my parents to pick and choose the traits suitable for their daughter to possess. The thing is that I want more than I can comprehend.

Last year I studied the violin, and the year before that I took up tap dancing, and neither then or any of the other times preceding did my parents ever really seem to care. I watch them watching me in the audience, and our eyes reveal nothing to each other. When I asked to sign up for a pageant, to pursue a new fleeting passion, my mother simply nodded and stated she would contact a coach for me.

That easily, in our world, can we have the things we want. Just a snap of the fingers, a card swipe.

And yet.

I know myself deeply; girl who watches pretty things come and go, and who dreams so sweetly of their return. I am so tired of the wanting being the easiest part. One day, I'll find a passion worth standing in one place for. Until then, what other choice do I have but to dance, and to hope, and to look on at my girlhood unraveling in horror?

I could so easily walk away from myself.