Into the lion’s den, I have returned.
Back to the very arena which sparked my addiction.
The photo shoot has just ended. I sit in front of the mirror. The expertly applied mask creates an outer beauty, conveying a fantasy for the world to perceive.
No longer cleverly concealed, pockmark craters mar my features.
The body may look young, but the face clearly shows the more than fifty years I have walked this earth.
Each line, each crevice and each scar is well visible, and well earned.
As I sit here unadorned, it is just me. It’s Rita.
I smile. If those who compliment that which they see, knew the entire story. If they recognized what they see is merely the surface of a life-long, never-ending struggle.
I am happy with Rita, but that wasn’t always so.
I think back to another time. —
When I didn’t like her.
A time, when I hated her.
A time, when even I didn’t know her.
I screamed into that mirror, “I want to fucking die! Why are you still here?”
That image, would only mimic my motions and movements – an answer it would never give.