It is like seeing a filthy neighborhood kid clean and ready for picture day with mommy. You’ve never seen through the grey-brown eddies perpetually swirling in front of his face, now perfectly pink and scrubbed raw by a frazzled woman with no nails and commanding cuticles.
It is like smelling a Christmas tree and running your fingers over a forgotten scar on your thigh, the one you got from an angry sibling sneakily nudging a thick red candle into your lap at a festive, fattening family dinner.
It is like touching your chest when you are a thirteen year old girl, feeling uneven and unsettled, and nothing like a woman.
It is like tasting your food after staring at it for ten minutes, then making it for everyone you know.
It is like that.
Only I’ll never admit it.
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