writing adventure 32- Sad Songs

     She is just a collection of sad songs. That's what the music industry tells her, anyway. She is just lyrics, just tears on sheet music. She is a simple chord in a simple song.
     The magazine companies tell her she's something completely different. In their eyes, and in the eyes of her mirror, she is a collection of failed diet plans and too small bikinis. She is someone who is beautiful, but only until she flips to page forty and they tell her how to hide everything that makes her ugly.
     In a book store, though, she's a collection of romance novels. She is soft sighs and softer kisses. She is filled by dreams of someone else, someone bigger than a life of sad songs, and despicable magazines. She means something, but only to a figment of her imagination.
     She's not sure if she wants to be any of these things, but she knows that's what she is. At least, it's what they consider her to be. And maybe that's because she lets them, or maybe it's because they can't see past the thin skin she has on her body, but nevertheless she has been defined by these traits. They have made her bed, the bed she lies in now, thinking of those sad songs, and of those prettier girls, and of those imaginary boys.
     She vows that one day she'll get up out of this damn bed, and she won't ever be those things again. She'll be something that she wants to be, she'll be bigger than just a collection. She'll be human. One day.
     For now, the sad song will play, and it will make her cry over the fact that she is ugly in everyone else's eyes but that one boy's. Only he doesn't really exist.
     At least, that's what they tell her.