The little girl in the picture

There’s a sadness in the eyes of the child. Even at seven-months-old, she doesn’t smile. It’s as if she was predestined to never find lasting happiness.

Her eyes see everything and she knows she has to trust herself. At the tender age of two, her family has already instilled a life of doing more, being better than everyone else instead of just being her.

She knows how to read before she is three. An advantage that only matters for a few years, if it ever mattered at all.

By five, she knows there is no purpose in tears. They bring ridicule and shame. Only the weak cry. Only the weak show their hand so they can be defeated.

By nine, she rarely smiles. Everything is internalized. Her eyes squint when she hears a line of bullshit, but there is no one to to bring joy to her heart.

At twelve, the light in her eyes is greatly diminished. The radiance, the sparkle is not present. Her eyes are expressionless, closed off to the outside world.

At sixteen the loneliness is complete. Her eyes darken with the shadow cast upon her from the start. She is still strong. She is willful. She is what she was made into being.

The pictures do not lie. So there are no more pictures. A sparkle in her eye only ever appears in conjunction with inebriation.

As adulthood approaches, there is no way for her to be calm. No words are needed. Her eyes tell everyone to go away.

The tears, the pain, the suffering that the heart cannot bear are locked away. And her eyes tell you everything you will ever need to know.