Disclaimer: I don't own them, obviously; if I did, Lana
would *always* be this interesting.
***
She can't remember if she likes pink. Her closet is full of
neatly hung sweaters and blouses and t-shirts in shades from
palest pink to deepest mauve, but she doesn't even know if
she likes pink.
She knows that she always wore pink dresses when she was
little. Pink dresses with lacy collars and ribbon sashes,
puffed sleeves and full skirts that she would twirl in like a
ballerina. Pink dresses to match the youthful, healthy glow
of the girl who always smiled, even when she had little to
smile about.
Pink lipstick now adorns the soft lips that are still smiling
after all these years. Smiling as she runs out onto the
field with her pom-poms, smiling as the Homecoming Queen's
crown is placed upon her head, smiling as she walks through
the halls, safe in the arms of the boy she knows will always
be true to her. Smiling as she dreams of walking out the
doors of Smallville High and seeing her parents waiting at
the curb, ready to whisk her off to Metropolis so her real
life can begin.
She smiles, and no one questions why. She has the perfect
life, after all. She may be an orphan, but she's a
beautiful, popular, smart, beloved orphan. She smiles and no
one sees her tormented soul.
Alone, she locks herself in her room and throws a blanket
over the mirror. The girl who smiles is not allowed in here.
Reality lives here, not illusion. Structures only, no
facades.
The reality is that even *she* doesn't belong in here.
***
Reality is not pink. Reality is steely silver glinting in
the late afternoon light. Reality is the fiery orange of the
setting sun on the western horizon.
Her reality lies in glossy beads of deep crimson red and
fading lines of maroon on smoothest alabaster.
This is the only way she knows she is still alive. By
peeling back the layers of the fa
would *always* be this interesting.
***
She can't remember if she likes pink. Her closet is full of
neatly hung sweaters and blouses and t-shirts in shades from
palest pink to deepest mauve, but she doesn't even know if
she likes pink.
She knows that she always wore pink dresses when she was
little. Pink dresses with lacy collars and ribbon sashes,
puffed sleeves and full skirts that she would twirl in like a
ballerina. Pink dresses to match the youthful, healthy glow
of the girl who always smiled, even when she had little to
smile about.
Pink lipstick now adorns the soft lips that are still smiling
after all these years. Smiling as she runs out onto the
field with her pom-poms, smiling as the Homecoming Queen's
crown is placed upon her head, smiling as she walks through
the halls, safe in the arms of the boy she knows will always
be true to her. Smiling as she dreams of walking out the
doors of Smallville High and seeing her parents waiting at
the curb, ready to whisk her off to Metropolis so her real
life can begin.
She smiles, and no one questions why. She has the perfect
life, after all. She may be an orphan, but she's a
beautiful, popular, smart, beloved orphan. She smiles and no
one sees her tormented soul.
Alone, she locks herself in her room and throws a blanket
over the mirror. The girl who smiles is not allowed in here.
Reality lives here, not illusion. Structures only, no
facades.
The reality is that even *she* doesn't belong in here.
***
Reality is not pink. Reality is steely silver glinting in
the late afternoon light. Reality is the fiery orange of the
setting sun on the western horizon.
Her reality lies in glossy beads of deep crimson red and
fading lines of maroon on smoothest alabaster.
This is the only way she knows she is still alive. By
peeling back the layers of the fa