For the girls that are starting to feel like women,
put on that smile and show the world
just what you're made of.
┍ ✖ Tracks ┑
I Don't Need A Man - The Pussycat Dolls // Part of Me - Katy Perry
// ***Flawless (Ft Nicki Minaj) - Beyonce // Fly - Nicki Minaj &
Rihanna // Bang Bang - Ariana Grande & Jessie J & Nicki Minaj //
Fighter - Christina Aguilera // Roar - Katy Perry // Warrior - Ke$ha //
This Head I Hold - Electric Guest // Dog Days Are Over - Florence +
The Machine // Tightrope - Janelle Monae // Shake It Off - Taylor
Swift // Man! I Feel Like A Woman! - Shania Twain // Thinking of You
- Ke$ha // Warrior - Beth Crowley // Glory Box - Portishead
┕ ┙
My mom and I were always close and never liked to fight. Whenever we disagreed about something and ended up yelling at each other, we had a tradition. To come to an agreement the fairest way possible; a simple game of rock-paper-scissors. And despite how random the outcome could be, I always found myself repeating the same thought process in that split-second moment before throwing out the sign.
Paper is malleable. Paper is possibility. To be folded, or torn, or drawn upon promotes limitless shapes that paper can take. Paper is always my first impression on what to throw when playing. Maybe I was envious of it, to take whatever form it desires. But paper is weak. Crumple it once, and the scars of folds will remain for good. In the heat of an argument, I can’t be so submissive if I want results. I need to go on the offense, to leave a mark rather than be left with them.
Scissors are acute. Scissors are sharp. They cut deep and get to the point. But in all the violence that comes with the blades, they can be liberating of binds holding one back. After I toss out the possibility of shooting paper, I mentally prepare to extend two fingers. But as effective as scissors can be, too aggressive of an approach can end in backlash. Solidarity, bluntness, and defensive is the approach I need to take with such sensitive material to fight with my mom about.
Rock is foundation. Rock is simplicity. Rock is needed to shatter the window of obscurity that lies between my mother and I. She can’t hear my cries for help while it’s still there. But how does one admit to their traditional mother than what lies inside them is anything but traditional? I throw rock as always. She throws paper. She knows me too well. I nod and turn away, promising never to bring it up again as is our tradition.
But I can’t this time.
I turn back to her with clenched lips and white knuckles gripping something with intensity.
Paper.
I try my best to show her the research papers I printed from the library, shoving them in her face. Scientific explanations for why I’m different. Proof that I’m not a genetic abomination. Proof that I’m worth adopting whichever true identity I possess. She won’t have it. I groan and turn towards the bathroom, proceeding to my second option.
Scissors.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror before grabbing the pair of shears. I know this is the last time I’ll look like a girl. Locks and tears fall to the bathroom floor as I hear my mother banging against the door and yelling. If she can ignore my cries I can ignore hers. She manages to find the spare key just as the last long strands of black fall into the porcelain sink. She looks at me in horror, at my hair. Once luscious and smooth, now messy, jagged, and short. Almost as short as my mother’s temper. She chases me out of the bathroom, gripping the scissors in a menacing and manic manner. Her arms flail wildly as she runs me out of the house into the overcast outdoors. In a fit of rage, she lashes out and draws a small line of red under my eye. We both stare at each other in surprise as I fall to the ground in a stupor. I crawl back and feel something sturdy under my hand. With a tense grip, I grab it and stand, staring at my final choice in my hand.
Rock.
Before she can lash out again, I do the same with the rock in my hand. The stone connects with the side of her head and she falls to the ground. Like mother, like dau–son. She’s writhing on the ground as she tries to come to grips with what just happened. I turn, and run, knowing there’s no way she would let me back into that house now. With sturdy steps I walk away, flinching only when a thunderclap booms above me.
It’s one of his most prized possessions. Every day he scrubs it clean. Scrubs it of dirt, scrubs it of spots, scrubs it of soot, scrubs it of factory grime. He scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs it. The glass must be polished. The frame must be in pristine condition. It is one of the objects which he values most in life, aside from himself, of course. Every day, he stands before it. He examines what lies within it with satisfaction.
Eyes as golden as the sun. Not human, no they don’t look humanesque. Not at all. There is no semblance of the Homo sapiens in his eyes. Not an ounce of humanity can be discerned beyond his cornea. There is the slyness and stealth of the Felis catus, the poise and unpredictability of the Ophiophagus hannah. There is nothing human about these deceitful eyes, and he knows it. Yes, Genesis knows it.
And it brings a smile to his lips. They spread across his face, stretching to reveal rows of pearly, opalescent white teeth. Not a single one is askew, nor chipped, nor yellowed. He runs a hand along his skin as smooth as the silks of his district, and alters the position of his head, revealing a side view of the masterpiece. He traces a finger along his jawline, a jawline sharp enough to slice through the flesh of his finger.
It is in this mirror where his confidence lies. Where his narcissism manifests. Where his ability to bring destruction originates. The mirror is Genesis’s source of power. It is his source of being, his source of every ounce of self-worth. The mirror holds a wisp of the soul of Genesis. As long as it remains, unshattered, unbroken, untarnished, Genesis remains an immortal being. At least, he likes to think as much. That his youth and beauty will never cease to exist, when in reality it could fade and rot away at a moment’s notice. He refuses to acknowledge this possibility.
