(Include images)

It’s one of those no skip albums every singer has, except all Olivia has are “no skip albums”. SOUR, GUTS, GUTS spilled- their all so beautifully produced that I need to listen to every song.

I think what makes her the best is the fact that she makes songs because she loves writing and not because she wants the money or the fame.

Yspsfagsil makes people all over the world feel heard and it’s like we are told “it’s okay to feel a lot”. With Olivia’s songs, its always up to interpretation- the song, in reality, could be about an ex or a partner but people can sing about their dog, their best friend, their family. The way she is able to write personal things universally is truly remarkable.

More that than, her songs are very introspective and shows how emotionally intelligent she is through her songwriting. (You can be emotionally attached and intelligent at the same time).

She had a whole controversy about the babydoll dress, which to me is personally stupid especially cause you know those rumors weren’t her intentions at all.

After that, she paid a college girl’s (Jamie) tuition IN SECRET. And I get it paying for people’s lunch, tuition and all is normal in the media industry but I think what makes her act different is that she did it in SECRET. She didn’t show it to the whole world, bragging, to try and get publicity because of it. She didn’t wear META glasses or record her paying Jamie’s tuition. She did it in secret showing how it wasn’t for the likes or the publicity but just because. (She is kind)

Now, Daisy Chain Fields, an all woman festival to support women’s reproduction rights, maternal health and gender justice, advocating for women’s rights. With all net proceeds (10 Million) going to 10 different Non- profits that support Woman. Which helps a lot of woman both in the US and overseas because of how popular it is getting.

So thank you Miss Olivia Rodrigo.

I look pretty and look tall

My nose is thin and buttoned up

My blush is pink and cheekbones risen up

My body looks thin,

My body looks big

I move to another angle,

My body looks slim,

I look bony

Hands over my skin.

I look short

My nose is stubby

My pale face and flabby skin

My body looks thin,

My body looks big

I move to another angle,

My body looks slim,

I look bony

Hands over my skin.

Blood falters to the sink

A distorted image

An ungrateful sin

My body looks thin,

My body looks big

I move to another angle,

To feel as pretty as I once did

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This then developed into the organisation known as The National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.

This awe- inspiring support from protestors, media and the public is what helped plus size individuals feel safe.

While this was happening, skinny individuals were being shamed due to the public favoring “curvy figures”; and because of the lack of seriousness for their problems, there was and has never been an official movement.

Since being skinny was socially acceptable and looked like a dream from afar, at close it had its challenges as well. People would insult and degrade thin people yet no one would take it seriously because of the lack of institutional disadvantage

(because it is more acceptable in society to be skinny). While having this societal privilege is good, the belittling and degradation would then be discounted because of frivolous arguments that phrases such as “eat a burger” are a concern for health.

Now, the body positive movement has become a broad term for all body types, which lead to skinny people feeling accepted and reassured that the issues they face with their weight matter as well.

Yet even with protestors, movements and organizations, there are always people still spreading hate equally for both skinny and plus- sized people. This is especially seen with celebrities such as Ariana Grande, Selena Gomez and Lizzo who have recently received a lot of hate for their weight and looks. While some fans show concern, most just simply hurl insults. With social media comments, the normalization of shaming skinny people have increased; but gladly there is a social stigma attached to fat shaming.

However, only until every person feels safeand accepted in their skin can collective liberation begin. So, when are we going to embrace and accept people regardless of their sizes? When are we going stop making young children over conscious of their weight? When are we going to stop being hypocritical and treat all people of all sizes the same

or rather with avoidance.

im 17 and ive never had a boyfriend, im 17 and my best friend is long distance, im 17 and my friends don’t even call me, im 17 and i push everyone who show any effort to care away. my friend told me its because I don’t really try, and that’s true i guess I don’t really try but maybe thats cause every time i have, it just ended with me getting hurt. so do i really know who i should be friends with anymore? is my judgement only going to leave me hurt?

avoidance.

don’t get me wrong its not intentional, its more so something that always happens. ive met a lot of people and they tell me they want to be friends but they never do anything about it, so nor do i. people say that i don’t talk much but in reality i do but there’s this fear that the moment i actually let someone in, they’ll leave. gone in a second. and i hate that.

i cant blame it on anyone really but i feel like there is always going to be that one relationship you truly thrived in and when they left without a word so did the hope of anything getting better.

i get attached to the friends i make, i tell them everything and are there for them through anything yet that also leaves me hoping they do the same. wishing they did the same. but they don’t. they don’t call or text or make it feel like we are friends. and when they do that I just take what i can get.

“so im cool and forgiving, ill take what your’re giving”

but after all the begging and crying, the feeling fades away, the memories fade to black. slowly it seems like everything if fine, you feel hopeful. you try to get new friends yet when they finally come to you, you cannot let them in. because even though you got over it, the sting stays.

and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts.

and right now im not sure if it goes away, maybe it does and i really hope it does. cause right now im still hurting and all i know is that we all are going through the same thing somehow, somewhere so just know that you're not alone.

I feel claustrophobic as my thoughts echo as loudly as they did when I first realized that I can never go back to when I felt like a fairy, a princess, a human. It goes “Maybe,… what if…, somehow…., what if”.

Memories replay from when I was a child, when I held onto my mamma, afraid of nothing. My younger self, having the greatest of desires, to grow up as fast as possible, predicting that she would be surrounded by joy. Yet, as she looks around, she finds nothing but a heavy cloud, filled, without any water. She stares at the scene, tears falter down her face; her mamma hates the negative tone in her voice.

The wind blows strands of hair onto my face. Bringing me back into this physical realm. Where my mothers words “be happy” echo louder and louder, urging me to scream out loud. “Oh mother, how could I hold onto a feeling of joy? If the only joy I’ve ever felt was when I was a child.”

Time slips and the only thing that blasts is the sounds of despair clasping onto the future yet holding onto the past.

Feeling claustrophobic in a room without people as my thoughts somehow convince me that this void is filled with them.

The brittle strands that corner each yarn symbolizes an experience that was never truly expected to linger around. Being sewn with various colours and sizes make us different. Who knew simple colours could portray inferiority (through personality and appearance), who knew the amount of bravery, hope, confidence and whimsiness that was instilled into us could change so easily. No one admires a change in a normally consistent pattern. Politically a change, (opinions) could lead to a long lasting hatred towards an individual and rather than, it also occurs in our everyday life- the guilt of change, the pressure to change.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the quite intricately woven pattern: An influential figure starts a trend, it is talked upon for a long while, then it alters and changes the mindset of young individuals and then slowly becomes normalized, woven into society. “To be normal is to mirror the crowd” is a known opinion throughout history. The thread ties, unties and follows the same pattern- which leads to the same product. The overconsumption of the same thread, unintentionally develops into a knot trapping whatever freedom or childlikeness we had left in us. Our woven personality alters through the quiet experiences and challenges we are revealed to. While most of them may have been experienced by others, the way we react is what makes us humanly different.

If we do truly mirror the behaviors that were instilled in others, is anyone really that different? Or are we just the same versions of each other? Through adopting mindsets to be more inclusive, the thread followed a pattern that was already written. Therefore, opinions are quite the same, which could be substantially because of social media and news outlets implicitly telling us what we need to think. And if we don’t support the belief they wish for us to, cancel culture could implode onto us. Therefore, our values, beliefs change to be accepted into this world that strings on double standards, conformity and trends. What was simply a theory became a known truth- “to conform is to be safe, liked and preferred” a belief that lingers along many of us. A belief that blossoms in the depths of our souls, a knot that forces you to start a new pattern.

Although, even with the pressures to follow a certain crowd along the pathway, experiences are also a factor that affects Integrity. The glimpse that a stranger gave you while crossing the road, all stay etched to you, following around like strings with no end. The torn teddy bear, the Barbie that was doodled on, the rusted toy car- still remain carved in your memories disintegrating yet surviving. While society’s standards quietly blossom, experiences still alter our own ways of thinking.

Looking back, I stay nostalgic for my youthful mind when I had no worries or sadness.

When younger, we could express our emotions better, didn’t try to fit in and always felt quite enough. But as we grow, so do society’s pressures. Which changes our schema, increasing our attentiveness to every detail. From the corners of a scar to the way the sun reflects by the window, everything is analyzed, written down inadvertently.

The intertwined pieces of thread are quite different from each other. Bravery may be louder in one pattern, while love may be more in another. Through the rusty weather, the threads can mutate, tear or alter but through time it can return into what it once was before.

The bittersweet taste of nostalgia stains my mouth from time to time, to be the one I was made to be, truly, true to myself. Woven, torn and woven again.

:This essay is not trying to say that change is bad and you must be the same person you were when you were younger. Because not all change is bad, change can obviously be good. This essay simply talks about how society changes us like puppets and how we slowly mirror each other, from the outfits we wear to the way we act- all of it just to fit into the same pattern.

They say you really gain consciousness when you turn 4 years old, as if you really start to understand life and who am I to argue with scientific data? I have no recollection of being a toddler. But as I walk through life, pieces and gravel stick together stitching up a childhood which according to the iCloud is mine.

Birthdays were special, a day where you could brag about what you can do now and the gifts you got. Growing older was all little me ever wanted. When she was a tween she would wait around to be 13 then she would want to be 16 as she thought that being an adult means freedom, you get to go where you want, watch what you want, do what you want. She never realized that with having that much freedom the air around her shoulders would get heavier.

Why didn’t she live in the moment? She would be running around with her friends, coloring on white walls as if they were a canvas, blowing her bubble wand transfixed by what appeared in front of her, the moment would only last a second by how fast she would pop them all. All of this yet in the back of her mind she would stay wistful to the thought of growing older. Everyday she stared at the paint-cracked wall where the clock laid, wishing for minutes to turn into hours and months into years.

The crayola smudges from the white couch shows to this day. A stick figure, more specifically a girl holding her once best friend with a heart drawn around them. If love could ever be shown it was through the paintings she gave to her friends, the drawings labeled with letters and numbers jumbled up, at least she tried to spell words. She watched fables of fairies and witches, princesses and popstars, blowing out her candles thinking she could live like them. Thoughtful, joyful princess, her parents would call her. They would crown her as princess every birthday. A gold tiara with pink flowers seeping around her head once every year.

For every cake she blew into she closed her eyes, whispering

“God please make time go faster, please oh please” as if it were a ritual.

But this year it’s different. Alone she sits on her bed surrounded with posters of albums that she resonates to. Wearing a black striped hoodie with pajama shorts as her head hangs low onto her knee, with her arms wrapped around her body. This was comfort for her. Her phone rings at every moment as people wish her, but she never replies back. She eats her chocolate cake in silence as she grieves for the little princess she once knew.

Princess pity party as she blows out the remaining candles, whispering, “please oh please Lord, let me go back” with mascara ricocheting down her rosy cheeks.

Isabel

This piece is also published in project_zine ‘s Issue 1: The scent of little things.

Never lose your whimsiness, is something I hear repeatedly in this app. And the only other thing that was cool about me was my writing style {at least i feel so} and I really wish to get it back. This left me wondering - Where did being “whimsy” even blossom from?

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Whimsiness mostly depends on the timeline you’re going through right at this moment. What stressors are bothering you, if you feel ecstatic or exhausted. It is simply a way to make you feel more joyful, more colorful and to feel as free as a child.

To become whimsical, I would color more, maybe go outside the lines. I would get stickers and stick them onto anything- to make everything more fun and have some meaning. I would put makeup that isn’t beige or black, but instead colorful with pink or blue glittery eyeshadow, and fun combinations of lipstick. I would name objects or get fun hobbies such as crocheting, singing or simply just taking myself for a stroll-all of this just to feel free again.

The hardest part of growing up is how no one ever mentions how fast it’s going to happen.

I would spend most of my younger years feeling as if being 16 was a million years away and suddenly there I am, as if I had jumped a million years in a matter of few seconds.Although, even if I did presume 16 to be far away, I secretly wished it grew closer.

Blowing out the candles on my birthday cake with a smile that blossomed at the thought of growing older, being mature and getting to do the things no one ever let me do before. And then, when I finally do age, the joy stays for a while, grows even. The flower that blossoms, finally reaching its most exciting stage and then the petals slowly start to wither. Because how can photosynthesis happen when I don’t feel like consuming a lot of food (abstemious). When rest becomes minimum with all my time spent being anxious and worried about assessments. When sunlight feels scarce because of all the makeup that has devoured my face. While 16 may feel far for a 9 year old, 20 seems a day away for a 16 year old.

It’s as if every year, the yearn for the past comes faster. Many years ago, it was a really old person wishing for his or her childhood back but now even 13 year olds stay wistful to their childhood. This could be because of how hard everything seems to become in society. Taxes implode, permissive parenting, having social media when you’re really young -prevents children from truly socializing and enjoying their youth.

Furthurly, when skincare and materialistic possessions are all a young child sets their heart on, whimsiness decays and it become all about fitting in with society’s normalities. Gen Z wanting to bring back digital media shows how nostalgic everyone is for the early 2000s, the years where social media didn’t prevent real conversations and everything felt more calmer and colorful.

You spent all your childhood yearning for the future and when it finally comes you pray for a Time Machine that could help you go back. Back to the fun times, where not a single worry flooded your thoughts. Where you would spend your time playing running games and hide and seek. So, to cope with this nostalgic craving, the word whimsy gained popularity. And no one would ever want to lose their whimsy.

Therefore, You are never too old to have collectibles, use stickers or have a colourful wardrobe. Whimsiness is alluring and is very much needed to make stressful times feel like a bliss (sanguine).

XOXO,

Isabel(le)

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I’ve never cried as much as I did since Lacie called me two nights ago.

“Darling ally, is Theo with you?” she asked softly, but I could recognise the tension in her voice.

“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.” I paused, listening intently at her breath, analyzing it, wondering if something was wrong. “Why? Your tone scares me.” I finally said as I couldn’t stand there, imagining worse case scenarios.

“We can’t find him” she cries frantically.

“Lacie, what do you mean? I’m pretty sure he’s there somewhere, I’m pretty sure he’s in Dani’s house. Have you checked?” my heart raises, where I can only hear the shake of her breath.

“He’s not there sweetie, I’ve checked everywhere, all around the neighborhood. You were my last resort, my only hope”, she cries. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner I didn’t want to be a worry. Also he did tell me that you were going to be out of town for today.” Suddenly the only thing I hear is a screeching sound burning my ears. I was going to be out of town but the plans were cancelled yesterday. I did tell him that yesterday morning. Has he been gone since then?

Before I could make sense of anything, I felt as if the world was spinning around me but I stood my ground because it was true, I was Lacie’s last hope and I needed her to feel hopeful.

“Dont worry lacie, we will find him. You need to contact the police and then just try to calm down.” I said.

At that moment, I knew things were never- could never be the same again.

I made it out of bed after replaying everything for about 5 more times and every time, my chest tightened and I felt uneasy but it’s as if I couldn’t control any of it. The door slowly opened with my Father’s head peeking in. “Hi sweetie, how are you?”, he asked softly.

“Im better”, I paused “But you have to understand this is not about me, I am not the one all alone, theo is and I need to go find him” I said in a rushed tone.

I grab my cardigan from under my bed and rushed out the door. I can’t stay here, here in this trapped house while he’s out there. So I run, fast, to all the places we’ve ever been because maybe, just maybe he’s there, somewhere. Maybe I missed something. Maybe the police did. It just doesn’t add up, theo tells me everything, EVERYTHING. If he was planning on running away, I would be with him, holding his hand as we sprinted ourselves to the ends of the world. He cant- wont leave me, right?

I found my way into our first picnic spot. He brought me here to tell me about his undying love for me. I wasn’t really taken by surprise since we have always talked about love but it was always in a “i hope you find the love that you deserve” type of way.

That day, he walked me to this spot in which he had placed blue roses on a cloth with two bottles of Coca Cola. He wore a fitted black suit with a rouge tie while I wore a whimsy white dress with blue flower lace seeping around my waist.

The flowers always bloomed here, as the sun’s rays shine at the right spot with just the right amount. But today, there were none, no flowers growing, the ones which did- withered, leaving nothing but pieces of dried up petals. It was like I was in a nightmare. A horrible, dreadful nightmare.

Suddenly, I found myself somewhere else, it was familiar but not at the same time, there were books, lots of books and shelves. “THE LIBRARY”, i yelled, i didnt realize that i was surrounded by people, lots of them. This was the same place me and theo would spend days and nights studying and solving math equations.

“You’re so stupid” he laughed, twirling a hazel strand of my hair.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m learning from you”.

“Yes, back to learning” he paused “x2 - 24y divided by 28y is?” he asked, staring at me with one of his eyebrows higher than the other.

“I’m tired, want to get some coffee?” I sighed.

“Yes of course, stay here, I’ll get you yours” he smiled, walking away.

“Pumkin spiced-” I yell but he interrupts me walking back towards me, “Latte with extra cinnamon and extra hot”, taking a hold of his purse and tilting his head. I nod and lay on the table.After about 7 or 8 minutes he arrived with the latte and a mocha.

“Here you go” he hands me my drink.

“Thank you” I mouthed while sipping my coffee.

The burning sensation brings me back to the present. I stood in that library for about 10 minutes staring at a girl who was working at the table we normally studied in. She seems unfazed and completely ignores me.

Before I could catch my breath I walk towards the bench, where we sat after having our daily runs.

“Do you want water?” Theo would ask, panting.

“No, not at all” I catch my breath, “thanks”.

“Sit down for a while.”

I would sit, staring into his eyes-

“What?” he whispered, smiling softly.

“Your eyes are ever so pretty, I could write poetry about it” I would say, cliche but true.

“Oh well you are ever so beautiful that I wouldn’t be able to draw you even if I tried hard” he grinned.

The rain starts pouring bringing me back into the present.

Realization hits, The rain is pouring but it is not touching me, i cant feel it hit me. I rush back home, into my room, collapsing onto the hard, cold floor, tears streaming down my eyes. Confused, What is happening? It was sunny just a minute ago?

I build myself up and walk to the bed collapsing onto the thick blankets, “I just need to sleep, just sleep alice, sleep” I mumble.

Before I could get under the sheets I find a note with a red ribbon wrapped around it, I fling it open, to find the words “I hope you find your way home☆” written in an italic cursive handwriting with a star at the end, this could only be theo.

He’s always loved the stars.

Where is he? Is he home? My hands starts shaking yet they feel numb at the same time, my heart races and my breath feels like I’m out of it. I struggle as I breathe in-“Theo” I scream. “Theo, come back”, breathe out- “Please”, I cry. Breathe in.

Suddenly someone screams back, “Alice”. It sounds so near but far away. I can’t breathe. “Alice wake up.”

And suddenly I’m back, in a (I pause and look around) hospital. Oh.

It’s been 9 months, 12 days and roughly 16 minutes since Theo passed. Yet I’m still stuck in the same exact moment when his mother called me.

Grief is a scary feeling that is caused by the passing of a loved one and mine comes with tears and vivid nightmares that replay the past but somehow show many inaccuracies.

My fathers on my right and a blonde nurse stays on my left, checking my vitals. “You’re okay hun, don’t worry, everything’s fine” she assured me. “You’re going to find your way home”

A beeping sound distracts me. ———

"Where are you?"I search everywhere- desperately.

"Where have you gone now? Don't leave again"I stomp the ground but it's as if the cement is enclosed, not letting an echo pass through. The screeching computer like sound grows (-----), although, this time I awake, only to find myself hugging a blue gown I don't recollect wearing.

I beg for a shooting star to appear.

I have found prayers to whisper.

Isabelle

I’m in my classroom, it’s a free lesson, so all I have been doing is scrolling all around my Substack feed finding these captivating, thought provoking pieces which should have taken so much good time and ideas. I’m not trying to compare my writing with theirs but it’s as if my brain involuntarily compares everything while I read them and at the end of each piece it gives me a summary of how theirs is better and this stabbing guilt that I should be writing instead of consuming.

So well here I am, listening to that loud voice in my head, while hoping no one sees me and asks questions like “What are you doing?”, “What are you writing?” because I don’t know myself.

Is it just me or does anyone else in the world feel as if your writing is cliche even after you try to not make it so, I mean if we truly think about it everything is cliche. Lines like “I was born ready” or encouraging dialogues like “you can do it” are now considered cringy and cliche. Maybe its because we have been normalizing being nonchalant a little too much.

Nonchalant behavior is a relaxed or calming behavior people use to show that they don’t care or things that would normally have an effect on people, don’t have an effect on them. This behavior has been normalized for around a year and half which is insane to me. While it is okay at times to act as if you could care less, blocking those emotions permanently to act cool can majorly affect your self image, emotional regulation and day to day life (right?). Blocking emotions from uprising could make you feel numb to things that you would normally feel deeply for, this could decrease your authenticity and expression. You would be unable to truly express yourself with topics you’re really passionate about which could lead to you being less creative and artistic.

The worst type of nonchalant behavior is the one where a person acts all “idgaf” every minute of everyday, to everyone they know. And this type of behavior is the “I think I’m so cool if I swear when it’s not necessary, smoke and not take anyone’s feelings into consideration”. I know plenty of people like this who act as if everything is shit (the bad one) and they are “the shit”(the good- I mean hot one) just because they swear unnecessarily , throw punches and argue with everyone. Trust me I’m all for “you being you” and I have no problem with the people who do this once a while but the second they do it every minute of the day the more it becomes a habit. It also seems quite performative.

I’ve talked about this before and we all have, it’s how men do things to please other men. It’s this kind of power they want to fill into their bloodstream by being better than their peers, I am not a misandrist, I’ve just simply seen most guys ( not all men) act in a certain way to please other people in their gender.

You can’t tell me that the boys in my class act all tough to impress girls (if you do trust me this is not how you do it) it’s obviously to impress the other guys, to show them who is stronger, cooler. It’s the same with sports, guys I know compare themselves with their friends openly. Maybe it’s the way men are more competitive or maybe it has nothing to do with their gender and more about influence. Influence is a big part in a child’s life and the more the people around you act aggressive or competitive the more likely you are to be aggressive or competitive too.

But at the end of the day, if you want to be nonchalant, you do you because to an extent it is pretty freeing to be unbothered (the kind nonchalant).

You know what, maybe it’s fine to not create for a while and maybe it’s okay to take a break.

Well I don’t know how to end this but I hope you got inspired while consuming this piece.

Xoxo,

Isabelle

Amelia would find herself constantly forgiving everyone, acting like everything’s fine, even when someone would hurt her so bad that it would feel as if the world was collapsing onto her leaving her breathless onto the ground, where she’s too numb to even shed a tear.

Keeping you company

Yet she always went back, back to that hurt, to that misery as that was comfort for her. It was dreadful, yes, but not unknown. No unknown feeling can linger around her where she’s comfortable in. Even when it’s a falling comfort.

The glances, that are over analyzed. The subtle movements, that stay in her mind, the words that sting her fragile heart. It never goes away because she never lets go of the pain. The minute she feels at least a little better, her heart rises, her hands tremble, her body shakes because this feeling is unknown not only for her soul but for her body too.

Thinkin', "I'm not afraid of you now"

Pain, heal repeat. Pain, heal and repeat. Pain, heal and repeat.

I'm not afraid of you now

Staring at the mirror, as tears fall into the watery sink, she wipes them off. "It’s fine Amelia , your fine, don’t be overdramatic, they obviously did it by mistake" She whispers under her whimpering breath.

Forwards beckon rebound

"Again? It’s fine she said it’s a mistake" breathe in, breathe out, breathe in-

Forwards beckon rebound

"It’s fine?" she asks wiping the mascara from under her eyes, staring at her puffy face filled with products, finding herself in the same place she’s been her entire life.

Forwards beckon rebou-

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“I have a feeling you got everything you wanted
And you're not wasting time stuck here like me”

-Sydney rose

I look at the clock, time’s ticking fast, it was 1am just a second ago how is it suddenly 10. (tick, tick, tick) the clock goes, making my heartbeat grow louder and louder. Im memorizing the same formulae, yet nothing goes into my head. “ It’s time to get serious” I whisper under my breath. but, wasnt i serious before?

I should start using waterproof makeup, as my face is covered with uneven stains of lipstick residue by the tears that flow with every passing second. My anxious heart is heavy with wishes and desires to put in more “effort”. Im not motivated no longer- strands of hair hide my face, pages crumbled and books torn apart. My fidgeting leg, doesnt seem to stop shaking as i say “it’s ok, it’s ok, it‘s ok, everythings ok”.

“It’s my fault” Isnt it? atleast thats what they say.

My hands on my ears “it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just….”.

But, there she is playing the piano in her empty house. Writing poetry for a living, which everyone somehow relates to. Shes going to concerts and being on stage, cannons sprinkle confetti all over her. Her wardrobe filled with dresses, that i could only ever dream about. Her home filled with awards and certificates that i crave for. She posts pictures that people actually admire, while lying in her evenly cut backyard, staring into the stars, all of this because she could. She scrolls through endless paths laughing with her friends, living her life. Paparazzi doesnt seem that bad, especially when you feel pretty. Theres people cheering on for her even if she makes mistakes, oh how i wish. Im happy for her but sometimes my thoughts wonder “if only”'.

“I have a feeling you got everything ive wanted

and you’re not wasting time stuck here like me”

-Isabel

Also, i just wanted to add that personally i write detailed imagery for things i go through, because i know the details of the setting. So the “her” part isnt detailed enough because i have never lived like her i only wish too.

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Somehow when she grew, she became immersed into this unknown fact, that she is not beautiful. She tried to convince herself she is pretty (searching her thoughts for compliments), but she never could come to the conclusion that she is beautiful. "I hate my hair, I hate my clothes, I hate my makeup, I hate these pores" she would whisper every morning before school as if it were a ritual. Her curls were damaged by the amount of heat she put into it to straighten it and her face is covered with tear marks because of the amout of “i wish i werent me.” She would avoid social situations because one strand of her hair didnt look right. She thought acne would scare people away. She would layer her face with products, yet she still didnt feel pretty . She would take pictures with filters that would make her face thinner, her nose “cuter” and her eyes “prettier”. She hated how she looked in the camera and felt as she should loose more weight, maybe eat lesser, maybe run more. But she couldnt, because of the mental exhuation from ruminating in her thoughts wondering if she is pretty.

One day, she was staring into the blue void where clouds were floating above. She loved clouds, the way they move, the shapes they make, how special and unique each one is. The way each person, sees each cloud in a different way.

Suddenly, its as if God had whispered a phrase into her ears, she heard something, which changed her entire perspective in apperence, “Imperfections in the clouds are the reason we are so mesmerized by them.” She dissected that phrase, and was in awe of how much it made sense. She understood that we all are unique and we are made to be unique. Yet, she stayed insecure.

Image sourced via Pinterest, original creator unknown.

Why doesn’t she understand that imperfections are beautiful?

If we all looked the same, wouldn’t that be boring? That’s what makeup does- Line your lips, make your lashes long, your cheeks pink and your face tanned. Do it all just to fit the norms that society has put itself in.

Imperfections in the clouds are the reason we stare at them. "So embrase your imperfections as it is beautiful." She tells herself.

She wrote this prose and found the truth, imperfections are secretly perfect as they are made uniqely for you.

-Isabel

★Songs you could litsen to when you feel insecure★

~Pretty isnt pretty by olivia rodrigo

~Idontwannabeyouanymore by billie ellish

~Here by alessia cara

~Jade by sierra sikora

~Fat funny friend by maddie zahm

~Yes and? by ariana grande

~lacy by olivia rodrigo

~I know the end by phoebe bridgers

~Ur so pretty by wasia project

~What was i made for by billie eilish

~Skinny by billie eilish

~Pretty when you cry by lana del rey

~Be your own muse by haley blais

~Blue Hair by TV girl

~Complicated by avril lavigne

~Busy woman by sabrina carpenter

~Nobody by mitski

~Like him feat lola young by tyler the creator

Image sourced via Pinterest, original creator unknown.

Celia holds her breath as she picks up the ringing phone. She never liked the sound of it. It’s blasting, blaring as if an alarm is ringing.

She picks it up. It is her mother, checking up on her for the 10th time today. She slams the phone saying "I’m fine" and collapses onto the water- stained bed, staring at her phone waiting for her friend to respond. But they don’t respond, it’s been weeks. Her thoughts race “maybe they don’t care….maybe they don’t care….maybe they don’t care…..maybe they just don’t care”

Her lengthy hair dresses her face, her makeup, smudged; her mascara, staining the bottom of her eyes. She isn’t messy or lazy, she is just tired. Tired of her friends, tired of herself and tired of her life.

She stares at the black void as she closes her eyes, suffocating herself with the majority of thoughts. Her thoughts pound louder and louder with every passing second, but she’s learned to ignore it. Her mother could save her from this misery, maybe take her to therapy or to a good counselor, but she knows deep down that no one would understand, even if they would have learned the complicated human mind. She tries not to find pity in herself as she knows there’s worse in the world, but she can’t help but wonder, why she makes her life this miserable.

She never wanted this, this pain, but somehow she is the reason for it, not because she wants to make herself sad but because her thoughts do. She scrolls through her phone, watching people live their lives -happily, easily. She could too, but she rather not try.

Her teacher made her write an essay few weeks ago, about who you truly are, but that question hit her hard, as she couldn’t write a single word. You could ask her to write about her friends and she would write pages and pages but she couldn’t write about herself.

Why?

Because,

She doesn’t know herself

She doesn’t know herself

She doesn’t know herself

She doesn’t know herself

She doesn’t know herself.

She wishes she knew herself

She wishes she knew why her thoughts were against her.

She wishes she knew why she would rather sleep in all day.

She wishes she knew why she believed the lies her friends told.

She wishes she knew how to be better .

She wishes she knew that she needs help.

She wishes she knew how to ask for help.

She wishes she knew how to be herself.

She wishes she knew why.

Her thoughts sing "why, why, why, why, why, why"

She grabs her hair pulling it apart while screaming "shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP”

But it doesn’t, instead it grows louder.

She breathes in and out, in and out, in and then out.

She slowly ignores the havoc in her mind and goes on with her day.

Her mother decides to call her again.

Celia decides to pick up and says “I’m fine”.

Her mom hangs up the phone, believing her lies but how could she not, if celia herself belives it.

She is fine, she tells herself.

She now goes on with her day, holding onto nothing but the lie that she is “fine”.

“because somehow we survived”

~Isabel Rachel