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By Emily Bevins
My siblings were right, though. The girl is beautiful. As my sworn duty, I will try my best to convince her of that.
She picks me up with the lack of care that reminds me that she has done this a thousand times, and my task grows that much harder. She lifts me to her face, and it begins. With each swipe down her raw-rubbed cheeks, she paints my body with her lies. I play the willing participant; however, I am not silent. I whisper to her that her lies do not match her face. They haven’t for awhile now. She hasn’t been that naturally sun-kissed and rosy in a long time. I advise her to stop layering the small blemish on her chin with even deeper lies. I promise her that it will heal in due time as long as she leaves it alone. Finally, I remind her that she covers nothing with her lies but her own genetic makeup. She is more beautiful with her imperfections than she is without them. Without them, she looks less human, and her humanity is beautiful.
The morose look on her face tells me that I too have failed because she does not believe me. She does not think she is beautiful, and she will be back to her lies tomorrow. She takes one last look at me before I am tossed in trash. I allow my thoughts to wander before lid locks me in my makeshift coffin. Perhaps, there will come a day when she will believe us, and we will never have to remove her lies ever again—that would be the day.
Emily Bevins is a McConnell Scholar in the class of 2024. She is studying English, political science, and history at the University of Louisville.