The glossy magazine pages

are stained and creased with childish fingers.

We look, the colors bright,

at the impossibly beautiful.

Impossible.

In our child’s mind

nothing is impossible.

We watch the world

and giggle.  At night we

race the stars to see

who can meet the moon first.

The summer heat is nothing but an

imaginary menagerie of wishes we plant

in the dirtiest flowerbed and wait.

Wait

for the impossible to sprout.

The gleaming blue eyes of a

defined beauty stares steadily.

Daring us to compare and

find fault.

And we do.

We, in turn, watch ourselves in

mirrors and darkened windows,

we wait for the moment

we are no longer reflected,

but instead we transform into the same ideal

that was foisted upon us from the moment

we recognized light.