Dear Ma by Anvii Mishra (17, India)

Ma, you could braid my hair in the most intricate possible ways, adorn them with lilies and rosemary,
paint my nails with the prettiest shade of pink
- but I will never be beautiful.
Lilies, rosemary, braids: They’re all too fancy for me.
Pretty pink’s too pretty.
And your stunning hazel hair has translated onto me as this pitch black, frizzy mess.

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As I walk past the dead-silent street, the stunning skyscape fills me with envy.
I can hear the Moon, in its luminescent glory, call me names: repulsive, skinny, pale.
The street is surrounded by mirrors at every turn, guarded by them on either end. 
Mirrors that present me with the horror of revealing myself to me.
Unkempt hair. My face is a blur. Lips, red and chapped. With eyes that can only lifelessly stare
into my void like existence.

Soon, I began to melt.
The skin of my fingertips melts away to meet the gravel, exposing bright red.
Slowly and steadily, I’m departing my human form.
This is it.
Ma, would they still call me names if I disappear?​