Alexis Rhone Fancher: The Girl in the Photo

The Girl in the Photo Dazzles

Look how she shimmers and glows. She’s sequined,  phosphorescent, so gorgeous you can’t turn away. She shimmers when she moves, illuminating her interior, both the good and the not so;  it all becomes visible. She’s been damaged. Life’s out of control; there are no good options. The girl in the photo wants to let go, to quit this life and choose another, preferably one less painful. 

The girl in the photo is desperate. Her life topsy turvy; unrecognizable. Look, there are only two options: kill herself, or  go forward without mourning the past. Everyone has setbacks, her mom told her, like it’s recoverable, like she stubbed her toe or twisted an ankle. The girl in the photo wants to believe her mother, that magical thinking might get her through it. 

Sometimes she goes to the mall, tries on high heels, admires herself in a mirror. She can barely walk in those Louboutins with the red soles. Red like blushing, or blood. Watch her twirl, lightening quick, a dizzy dance with death. 

She turns the spotlight on what remains: her creamy skin, and thick, wavy hair, her perfectly symmetrical breasts. Her once-coltish legs are no longer perfect. Her knees hurt when she walks. Bone on bone, her orthopedist says. Sometimes he shoots painkillers into her knees. The sharp, exquisite pain that tells the girl she’s still living.

The Girl in the Photo Lacks Perfection

The girl in the photo is beautiful, but only if you don’t look too deeply. Her eyes are a dead giveaway. Their blank stare. Like they’ve witnessed some horror and can’t shake it. Like she’s only half there. She does better after dusk. She blends in. Disappears. Her darkness bleeds into the night. She knows how to modulate her voice so that everyone thinks she’s fine. 

She’s always been a good actor. She knows she can get lost in pretending. Her father used to call her his Sarah Bernhardt. Like Sarah, the girl had attitude. She was sure of herself. The girl in the photo had a way of commandeering a room. So all eyes focused on her. She lapped up the limelight; sometimes she even glowed. 

Her photo craves attention. Though eldest of three, she takes her parents total focus for granted until her sister arrives, two years later. She loves her sister, but resents sharing the stage. 

The girl in the photo is lost. There’s nowhere to turn. It’s like she’s been cut off from life. Just drifting. Nothing touches her anymore. She clings to no one. She knows that attachments can only lead to heartache, that love never lasts. As if anyone could love her now. She no longer loves herself. How could she? Her body’s scarred, broken legs mending, but she’s a cripple, anyway. She limps. 

Listen, be kind. She’s doing her best to forget the highway, the big truck aiming for their pickup, jumping the median and crashing into her and her beloved at 70mph. She’s lucky to have survived. She was the only one who did. 

So yes, that’s me, the girl in the photo. The one who cannot love herself. The one who sucks up all the air in the room. The one who only makes love in the dark.

The Girl in the Photo Whispers My Name

She acts like she knows me, inches her way inside my head; I’m helpless to stop her. Here’s the thing: In my life there’s Before, and After. Before: I’m twenty again, fresh, whole. Beautiful. Blink and then it’s After: The fatal crash. I turn twenty-one in the hospital, legs mangled, knees in pieces, the tragic heroine of my own life. Sole survivor. Look, for being unlucky I was very very lucky, or so I’ve been told. I hang on to that, trot it out when I’m introspective, in pain, angry at the world. My mother did her best to prepare me for this devastation, taught me my first life lesson: Nothing’s fair. she’d say when I’d protest the world’s injustice, even as a child. She said it to teach me not to expect too much out of life unless I was ready to grab it. There’s a finite amount of fairness,she’d say. Make sure you get yours. Ruthless? Or pragmatic. I’ve done my best to absorb mother’s life lessons. Maybe I would have done better if she hadn’t died so young. I took it as abandonment. I can’t help thinking she wanted to die. 

The Girl in the Photo is a Wallflower 

At a party she’s sidelined. Clumsy, she’s always asked last to dance. That limp. So little grace, it’s apparent. No, devastating, if she lets it in. Her dead mother stands sentry at her bedroom door, does her best to protect her. But face it: dead is dead. There’s only so much a mother can do. She nursed her daughter through the nightmare; marathon hospital stays, surgeries, recovery always dicy. Intense. Her mother showed the girl a future that was far more promising than what the girl imagined for herself. Her mother saw her future as an open doorway, while in the girl’s version, the door always shut in her face.  

The Girl in the Photo Clings to the Tree Trunk Like a Lifeline

Her fingers claw the bark, like it could save her. She’s run out of options, knows her time is limited, or maybe she’ll get a reprieve. It’s been known to happen, that freak moment when the universe pours blessings over her head like rain. As in crippled, but able to walk (limp) again. But never as good as before. She remembers that lunch with R, at her favorite sushi bar. 

She thought they were off to a great start. The conversation flowed, poetry, photography, their favorite museums. He was sexy in a rough, retro sort of way. Like one of  those 50s beat poets. Black leather biker jacket. Tight black T-shirt that showed off his biceps. Scruffy beard, at the point where a decision must be made. Scraggly or none at all? He was just her type.

It was a hot summer day. They drank their sake cold. Tossed it back. Once they’d finished, she excused herself. Walked to the Ladies. She felt his eves on her back.

Where’d you get that limp? He asked when she returned. She found herself growing smaller; she thought she’d conquered that limp. Evened out her gait. The girl explained. Defaulted to her carefully scripted story. The one where she turned her life around. And everyone else died. 

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Copyright 2026 Alexis Rhone Fancher

Poet/photographer Alexis Rhone Fancher’s photos are published worldwide, including the covers of The Pedestal Magazine, Witness, Heyday, Pithead Chapel, The Mas Tequila Review, and a six page spread in River Styx. She’s authored ten poetry collections, most recently TRIGGERED (MacQueens) and BRAZEN. (NYQ). Alexis recently won Best MicroFictions, 2025. She calls the Mojave Desert home.