I force my hopes, my dreams, my fears, and my embarrassment into jeans a size too small for me. Determined denim squeezes its way around my hips and thighs, leaving angry red impressions around my waist.
On top, a security blanket in the form of a far too large jumper, a noir tsunami of polyester that smothers my tits and curves and any shape into submission. In the mirror, the last traces of me slide away and I can see you. A long-lost lover I pretend I don’t recognize when I pass you. But besides looking a little more awake in the eyes, a little less freckled in the face, a bit smaller and a whole lot tighter, you look just like the day I tried to dump you. You stand in the silver and criticize who I am, what I’ve become – plain, failing and still angsty below my years.
I’ve found spiteful solace in self-loathing, but when I picture both of us speeding down a dark highway at 83 miles an hour, cold wind in our hair and faces brightened by the dashboard, I can’t decide on who I would rather see wrapped around the tree at the end.
Taylah is in her final semester at Swinburne completing her Bachelor’s in Professional and Creative Writing. She enjoys reading and writing speculative fiction, poetry, and comedy