Chances are it's not.

Why would there be a pile of it just sitting on your plastic table among your crayons and unfinished drawings? You could have gotten some from the kitchen but you swore you'd only do that once. Maybe it's a wayward pack of Sour Patch from a ninth birthday party close to being a tenth. All you know is there is sugar on my table! And all you want to do is take a bite. Any previous doubt disappears. Clearly, it's destiny. The universe's enigmatic controlling hand saw that you were craving something sweet and brought it straight to your table. Eat it! Don't be ungrateful. So into your tiny hand go the white crystals, so satisfying, so sweet, so saccharine....that they're borderline bitter. But seconds later, they're actually bitter. In fact, the taste was never sweet in the first place. Your mouth needs to rid itself from this mystery. You make a frantic run to the kitchen, you shove marshmallows into your burning mouth, Chubby Bunny for one minus the fun. Is sugar even to be trusted anymore? you ask yourself on marshmallow number 12. Will things ever be sweet again? Each and everything is tainted. The taste of your favorite food, the unfinished art projects, the crayons, the sparkly, light-up lava lamp, wait. Sure enough, a crack in the surface. You shake it to see if the glitter still swims around like a pleasant summer storm, and it does, but it sends a white mess onto your clothes. And you're left with the realization that you nearly poisoned yourself.

All for the sake of the sugar that never was.

My soul wants to stay awake, writing.

Night has more than fallen.

I am one of the few who is up at this hour.

But sleep has yet to find me; I fear it never will

until I release my inner thoughts.

I've had this one line caught in my head.

“My soul wants to stay awake, writing.”

Writing what exactly, I don't know.

It will most likely be a conglomerate of incoherence.

All I can do is let the words fall onto the page.

The light from my laptop blinds and shocks me.

My tired eyes are suddenly filled with illuminations.

My soul wants to stay awake, writing.

Never have I felt more alive.

My deep state of not knowing has come to an end.

The words at first come slowly, until I cannot control them.

My fingers dance around the keyboard

and like a classical pianist, I compose this melody.

My soul wants to stay awake, writing

the arrangement of 26 letters that could very well define me.

Pressure is not present.

Every time my insecurities threaten to stop me in my tracks,

I remind myself that I can edit this tomorrow.

Nothing stands between me and my flourishing soul,

the soul that wants to stay awake, writing.

i’m everyone’s girl, yet nobody’s woman.

never have i considered myself an innovator.

i do the tried and true things i know others will like.

never have i considered myself a boss.

my voice is too soft, my insecurities are too abundant.

but at parties, i collect high fives.

i’m everyone’s girl, yet nobody’s woman.

upon my pink, sparkly soapbox i stand,

preaching my worries akin to those of high school movie villains.

they laugh; they think they’re laughing with me.

there are times i feel i’ve lost my strength,

only to find out it was never there.

i’m everyone’s girl, yet nobody’s woman.

i want our daughters have strong, female role models,

but i myself fail to be one.

there is no room for me in my passions.

my mind was not made for the underrepresented fields

in which we are most needed.

but i’m everyone’s girl, yet nobody’s woman.

of glass ceilings, i don’t even scratch the surface.

it’s hard to fight when the fight is starting to reject me.

my voice is antiquated, tired, pointless.

but it still has volume.

i cannot be every woman.

i am merely myself.

as lacking and insufficient i may be,

this is me.

i’m everyone’s girl,

and i’m becoming my own woman.

-cn

in place of my name is a number.

645.

i, like many, have been sorted.

only 644 are ahead of me,

but how many are behind?

there could be millions, thousands, tens,

but there also could be none,

rendering my number meaningless.

suddenly, whoever lies behind becomes irrelevant

and my mind can only fixate on those in front of me.

644 people who are

prettier,

smarter,

nicer,

better

than me.

toil goes into bumping me up a spot,

but if i were to move to 644,

it would make no difference.

i only know one part of what’s behind

yet 643 of what’s ahead.

643 spots i have to transcend

to reach the one,the only,

the seemingly insurmountable feat

that will hopefully provide me with all the validation i need.

but how will i know?

it’s an impossible pursuit.

in place of my name is a number.

o, how i long for the days

when my namesake did not discriminate.

-cn

Witching hour is imminent. I told myself I would go to bed early, but as usual, I failed. This sleep cycle of mine will not be reformed anytime soon.

Somehow, I find solace in this stillness. Hopefully, it will be enough to lull me to sleep.

A lone lamp post illuminates the street on which I grew up. Through the cracks in my blinds, I can see it all. Twelve families have lived in the house across the street. Why they dropped like flies is uncertain, but in the back of my head, I like to believe a ghost chased them away.

Once upon a time, my next door neighbor’s car was state-of-the-art. Now, it is as moribund as him. Guilty as I am for counting the days until both are gone for good, it has helped me fall asleep on some nights.

Tonight is not one of those nights. My mind  cannot run wild on a night like this.

Numbered are my days left in this collection of rooms. Ninety nine percent of my existence has been here. It’s where I’ve risen for each day and retreated for each night. Now, I do neither. I simply stay stagnant, tailoring a cost-benefit analysis for when I’ll leave this place. As of right now, I can only find the former.

The bed opposite of me is empty. Ten years ago, I’d look at it to pinpoint my sister, and without fail, she was there. Her presence would assure me that it was safe for me to shut my eyes.

The one time it was vacant was a precursor to this years-long struggle. All of her sheets and blankets have been left as is, gathering dust and giving no evidence as to where she’s gone.

I need to turn my back.

Four pale blue walls encase this space. They used to be dotted with clouds, but the white paint withered with time. My parents had prepared it for my arrival into this world. Their first child was a big deal, and each expectation was through the roof.

The girl they got did not warrant a painted sky.

I can’t bear to look at these reminders. Not one place in my safe space is actually safe. For the first time, both my mind and my body are in equilibrium.

I want to leave this room.

My feet land on the course carpet. I’ve forgotten how much it itches to get up and walk around. The door creaks, taking me aback. The outside’s siren song is already louder than anticipated.

I tiptoe through the hallway, praying no one opens their eyes and catches me in my sleepless stroll. I can see nothing ahead of me, nor do I care to. I’m at ease.

Until my eyes begin to adjust to the dark.

Directly in my line of sight are the rows of old pictures. My family, my sister, old friends, our faces before the fall. Everything comes back at once.

The time I have left in this stillness is getting shorter by the minute. The night is quiet, which makes my the pounding in my head all the louder. I can feel the 3 a.m. all throughout my chest. Anything and everything can catch up to me.

I have to get out of here.

I run to the door; it’s bolted shut. The memories are creeping closer and closer. I die to be back in my state of denial and equipped with the gift of repression. But my mind is not strong.

There’s no going back now. I’ve disrupted the stillness.

The knot in my stomach is tied too tight.

I kick myself in the shin to alleviate my nerves.

A kiss from you is on the horizon.

Knocks on the door intensify my heart.

But in your presecnce, I keep calm.

Soon, our hands will be tightly knit.

My face is engulfed in a giant baby wipe. Well, that’s exactly how this Urban Outfitters sheet mask feels. I shouldn’t have expected much from the two dollar bin by the register, but the idea of clear skin made me buy it, regardless.

The instructions printed on the back said to wait five to ten minutes. It’s been three, and I’m already anxious to peel off this layer and reveal a visage as clear as day.

As I blink some of this mysterious, 0.03-cent-an-ounce elixir out of my eyes, my mind fixates on the near future. I’d have clear skin; all the boys would love me. I’d have clear skin; any job I ever wanted would be mine. I’d have clear skin; never would I have to ask for favors. I’d have clear skin; I’d be a valuable contributor to society.

Four minutes and twenty six seconds. Eh, close enough. I prematurely put a stop to the impending flourish of “Intro” by The xx.

My bathroom mirror is a mere turn around away. I turn to face this reflection of truth. My heart rate intensifies as I prepare to peel away this layer.

Three, two, one...

Lo and behold, my skin is glowing. Sparkling, actually. Never have I felt more beautiful, like myself. The mask is off. This is who I was destined to be, and I can see her right in front of me.

Until my eyes start to burn. My body responds by coating my retinas with tears. My line of sight drowns in this salty brine, and I wish for the time to come when I can take a second look at this sudden beauty.

An eternity passes, and I can see again. But when I face the mirror once more, I miss when my eyes could not open.

I don’t have clear skin.

Behind this mask is who I actually am: a clueless casualty of capitalism, with sheet mask chemicals in her eyes. Gone is the glimmering goddess, for she was never there.

The face-shaped baby wipe goes intro the trash, along with botox kit boxes, crumpled-up corsets, hideous hair extensions. Try as I might, buy as I may, this body in which I am trapped will never have big lips, a skinny waste, or a long, silky mane, let alone clear skin.

Surely, I’ll have to peel off many more layers before I can become the mask.