Melancholy by Merriam AlFuhaid

The teardrop diamond earrings hung from her ears and glistened in the electric light, a hundred reflections dancing on the wall. I have seen perfection, and it was not in the mirror.

Harsh words have been thrown against me like pebbles against a windshield. It is difficult to break all the way, to be in such divided pieces that others would try to repair them. But it’s so easy to crack.

I broke my glasses three weeks earlier and lost my last contact lens in the Pizza Hut bathroom sink. I haven’t replaced them because I can see better with my eyes closed.

In fourth grade, we put on a play called “The Self Esteem Machine.” It was full of silly songs, and my voice wasn’t good enough to sing any solos.

My mother won’t stop crying. It’s almost every night now. Her teardrops are so big I can see my face in them.

I cut my leg yesterday in the shower when I dropped my razor. At least this is what I told everyone. They believed me.

It is pouring rain, and I watch the drops trail down my bedroom window. I don’t know why people talk of drowning their sorrows. Sorrows swim as people drown. Sorrows are the water. Sorrows are the rain.

I danced in the neighbor’s sprinkler as I walked to school. Rain depresses me, but I love artifice. Maybe this is why I can’t deal with human beings, and why everyone believes me when I lie.

I’m waiting for anything to change. For the windshield to break, or for mirrors to stop cracking when I look in them. Better or worse. I don’t care.

But I can’t feel better and I can’t feel worse, because most of the time, I feel nothing at all.

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