by C. Feraday
I wrap myself in princess dresses and slide my feet into undersized high heels until they blister and my head aches from the music at the ball. I chop off my hair and let a sea of sweater swallow me, hiding my curves in layers of cloth, until I'm so lost and far from myself that I just want to go home. I wander blindly in search of it, in search of comfort in my own skin, of a packaging that fits. And then I see her, and she is beautiful and delicate and forbidden, her smiling shooting straight through the costumes to the real me that was before so stubbornly concealed. I slide my hand into hers, marvelling at how well our fingers lock together, like two pieces of the same puzzle. She is the perfect fit and I am home.
C. Feraday is a wanna-be writer freezing her ass off in Canada, eh.