May [H.S]

06 •

Magnolia

•••

On récolte ce qu'on sème.

Warmth beams on the apples of my cheeks, highlighting each dusting little freckle, the splattered blood rushing to my skin's surface in a flush. Grazing in the effect of the heated fluorescent lights. My eyes are rudely greeted by increments of bright flashes, tickling irises, not so fond of the moment of adjusting they have to do after each dozen pictures.

It's instilled in my brain to pose, part my lips the way they instructed me to. Forgetting there's an entire group of people watching this play out, my every move. Some would say this came naturally to me, those who didn't explicitly see how I zoned out. Living on autopilot mode. Easy with the stressing of my mind, how I managed to think of all the things I swore out. The photographers' murmured commands register in my head enough to move, not to the point I jot down what he's saying. It's candid that once this is over it will all feel like a fever dream.

Breathless pointers, expensive clothing, the large studio with huge windows encasing the lowering sun, glittering city lights. The bright beaming suns off to the side in which I orbited.

Cold, blue-hued lights drown out the green backdrop, the lavish fabric draped around my curves. Some designer I've never heard of until today, molded just for me, just for one use.

This all felt over the top.

A photoshoot for some magazine I would be on the cover of bold, overarching headlines, and popping words that make me sound more impressive than I actually am. Messily triple axles suddenly become pristine and history-making. My eyes aren't brown, they're a golden shade of liquid honey, my lips- the finest of peach velvet from the gods.

The clothes, dozens of hands doing my makeup seemed as though I was the queen of England, an old kind of royalty. They all spoke of me eloquently, delicately, suppose my skin was made of porcelain, my hair silk. I would lie and say I don't adore the attention, being in the center of it. How important I felt. Overwhelming in the best way, that cinching heat in my chest granted comfort. The anxiety addicted me.

Rendering chatter falls low behind the click of the camera, catching the moments I let my guard fall down, mentally cursing myself doesn't fix the fact I know there's going to be a photo I don't find flattering put in the magazine. They all saw me the same, not the way I did looking in the mirror every morning.

The thick layer of makeup sitting pretty on my face started to show its worn effect, lasting all the hours it had to stay malleable. Now it was melting off, sticky. All I wanted in the moment was to take a selfishly long shower and climb in a cold bed accompanied by Luke, hear his soft grumble as I poke at the arm he has strung around a pillow. Replace myself with it and burrow into the crook of his neck, smell the signature citrus scent that followed him around like a ghost.

Knowing his hours he'd be the one to bug me, half-asleep in bed. So I'd bother Joey, drive by the garage to see the lights off. Only to sneak into her apartment, trip over the shoes she always has at the door. Engulfed in the perfume of her room, I would try my best to be quiet, a mouse on the hardwood. Joey's a light sleeper, she would startle awake, lazily bring her arms out in front of her in a hug.

All I wanted was the fresh, unthought comfort.

I found myself craving it at all times of the day. In all honesty, it was never nourished, even if I sat in a bed of cuddles. I suppose it was like giving wine to a flower bed— It didn't make sense— in reality, I needed water. I desired those same sweet pecks from a certain someone.