Flaw Salad

Her origin story was message control. It was manipulation. It was saving face. Use these words to get a reaction. Get sympathy, get anger, get away.

Half-truths to parents who never really knew her. Untruths to friends. Lies to teachers. Lies to enemies. Little, countless lies scattered throughout her life.

Fake authenticity. That was her best trick. She opened that wide smile and leveled those earnest eyes, and she seduced the world into trusting her.

She learned to play the hurt, helpless bird. Poor girl, pretty girl. Help heal this wounded wing.

Control was her vice.

When self-control faltered, she sought dominion over others. With every tear, every sob, every pitiful confession, she commanded reaction. What an honest bird. What a delicate bird. What a brave, strong little bird.

And on days she felt adrift, she told herself that was choice, too. To be alone is a gift, and she needed no one, nothing.

She sat in her corner, turning putty in her palms.

Yes, this is control. Yes, this is choice.