Melania by Alizah Rizvi
I stand behind him–tall, proud, and beautiful under the dismal sky. Thousands of people pool out front. Red hats sprinkled throughout. They delight. Not for me, I remind myself.
Breath held. I remain frozen in his steps.
Their applause grows, a reminder to keep my chin up, my smile stiff and tight. Stiff nods of artificial agreement overcome me. Accustomed to it all, my posture grows straighter.
Bolder.
From humble roots to first lady– Was this a blessing or a curse? Remember to stay still. Movement is emotion and vulnerability is weakness. Feigned contentment plasters my face.
Plasters my future.
No room to slip up anymore. Every movement is broadcasted. Every sigh is a headline. I fail attempts of disassociation. Not sure whether I am doing so from him or from who I have become.
From what I now represent.
Four more years. Maybe eight. We’re ready for scrutiny. Ready for judgment. He drains me. They drain me. Every strand of dignity I once had, gone. I force myself into the confines of his shadow. I’m not ready. Behind him I stand, for better or for worse.
His right hand is held up. Stiff and proud– a king on a burnished throne. Perplexing narcissism etched onto the squint of his eyes furrow of his brow, notches on his belt.
Gold digger. Anti-feminist. Sell-out. A tight grip clasped around my trembling wrist. Another gold-tinged Trump acquisition, a pretty plaything, a beaming trophy set aside golf clubs and gold. I can see the entirety of America gazing on my shape.
Third “beautiful woman” in line.
His eyes, now two fun-house mirrors. The idiocy, his greed, the lack of thought for myself. Every detail amplified and engorged. Constant reminders of the woman I was and shadow I have become.