On the Count of 3

On the flight to Paris I read all the fashion magazines and practiced all the "common phrases" in my French-English dictionary.

I stepped off the plane and got gum stuck on my shoe. 

"Hi, nice to meet you. My name is Paris."

At first Paris flattered me. 
The way the lights hit my face made the French boys go crazy and the way my words left my fingers made love take a second look at what it means to be.

I held up my skirt and I curtsied. 
(That bow was the beginning of the end of it all)

Within 2 weeks I ran out of money and I remembered that I came to Paris alone. And I don't speak French.

So I melted into Paris.

None of you saw me, none of you knew I was there.
Because to you I was just the girl working in the Café down the street. My hair was always in a bun and sometimes I wore my glasses because I couldn't afford new contacts.
My heels broke on the asphalt and my legs were covered in bruises.  

I cried for you, but you never heard me.
New York was breaking me.
London was teasing me.
Detroit was calling me.
San Diego was missing me.
And Salt Lake was pulling me apart.

But when I became too weak to stand any longer it was the Eiffel Tower that I leaned on and it was Paris that held me up.

And I'm still that girl. 
I'm still the girl who spends her lunch break in an empty computer lab and only gets called by classmates hen they need help with their math homework. The girl on food stamps. I'm the girl who can't decide if she's a "right brain" or a "left brain" and doesn't understand why she can't be both.

But Paris,
You made me more than that.

You made me the girl that goes home at night and writes poetry.

ESTHER.