There’s something like rain in her eyes as she stares in the mirror. Rain, a thunderstorm of thoughts, all being spit out by her mind (though her mind isn’t much different from the media she’s fed). She is what we’ve made, made in America.
First, there is a warning rain-little puddles of sadness in the corners of her eyes reflecting an unattainable photograph from a misunderstood industry.
Then, the thunder- a pitiful plead with herself to become so controlling of her own being she can’t control it. Why, she wonders, Why can’t I let this het out of hand while in my grasp yet out of reach?
Finally, the storm the claps of a full auditorium sounding vaguely like lightning. The hurled words tat bounce off he reflection and back into her mind.
A brief moment of reason gives way to a lifetime of uncertainty.
She’s always sure to watch the weather channel though it’s nearly always wrong.
*For every single girl I see looking in the bathroom mirror at school and frowning*