Shattering Mirror

I stared into her eyes. They were greyish blue. I hated them.

She had limp, slightly red-tinged blonde hair. I hated her. Detested her, even. She was so thin, her ribs showed through her t-shirt. It scared me. I wanted to help her. And yet, she was so grossly fat I wanted to yell at her for even daring to eat at all. She was crying. I felt her helplessness, her confusion. I wanted to take her hand, tell her that all would be okay, but another part of me longed to hit her for crying. For being stupid. I hated her. She hated me. We hated eachother, and all was a pool of tears, a wall of despair. Not thinking, I lunged at her. My fist hit her cheek. She shattered into pieces.

All that was left of her was a thousand shining, sharp pieces.

My hand was bleeding. I cried, not bothering to be quiet anymore.

I hated her.

I hated her for being me.