This is a China bracelet. It is a message my mother had given to me, of genuine postures and pretty faces having to seamlessly combine into what we all recognize as Woman. Seemingly, I sit myself in front of the mirror, reminding myself the importance of silky hair locks and the risks of an empty wrists, the empty fourth finger she chases. She taught me how boys looked for pretty eyes, pretty hands, pretty lips – pretty.
She taught me: looks, style, act, pose, perform.
I learnt: make-up, poise, China, genuine, unwanted attention.
I have learnt so much that beneath my skin, there lies no gravity in my veins nor voice. There is no tangible matter you were looking for; I am skin under skin under skin. Just look into my sole reflection: I am armed with mascara here and a lust chain there.
Do I look pretty now?
Heyo, I’m back again! Just went out for Sing Night Fest and it was crazy hot. *Reminds self to bring portable fan next weekend.
This prose poetry was triggered when one of my friends commented ‘nice bracelet’ on my bracelet. Well, truthfully speaking, mine did come from China China (like legit some China shop in China), and my mom had picked them out for me. I probably should be killing myself for using the highly used word, pretty. But I pretty much have too little neurons to get myself starting on this word hunt. I mean, I’m like 16 years and 17 months old, so I technically am still too young and incapable of taking on such missions? Plus it’s 1:12; nothing I can actually do now.
I have been feeling morbid-ish these few days and I know I shouldn’t. Especially when my mentor demands we write some happy pieces by 27th. “Good fking luck renata”. But this one just hit me sooooo…
so bye, hope you’ve enjoyed the read.
p.s. collectively, I don’t quite care whether I’m pretty or not.