You watch her from across the room sometimes. Legs that never seem to end; long thick hair, vibrantly coloured. She swans past, graceful as a ballerina. The people who surround her feed off her beauty and her charm, as if they too could echo such wonder. She's the girl with the perfect skin and the flawless features. She could have stepped off the page of a magazine, for all we know. She's nice to everyone, but with a slightly rehearsed edge. You can't go and speak to her, because everyone would see that she pities you for your imperfections. Sympathises.
You hate her. Passionately. You've tried so hard to be like her, but now you're bored. You've cut off your long, thick hair; and are more beanbag than ballerina. You scream at teachers, bitch at your friends. Your quest for her beauty and personality has left you bitter. Torn. Sour.
Maybe it's time to be your own person.
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