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I stand in front of my room mirror, I stand there in my school uniform, messy from a long day at school. I stare at my reflection, and my reflection stares back; the same short messy brown hair, the same clothes, the same glasses, the same eyes; but it’s not me.

“Who are you? Who are you really?” I ask but my reflection doesn't respond, it just copies what I say. I rest my hot forehead on the cool glass of the mirror and stare into it’s cool blue eyes through my lenses, those eyes that seem to be enchanted as my breath fogs up the glass.

“Who are you?” I ask again but my reflection just stares back at me with those beautiful eyes that I wish I had. I seem to drown in those hypnotising blue-grey eyes of my reflection, but I see nothing, I don’t recognise anything, I’m not here, this isn’t me.

I step away from the mirror disappointed; I had really thought I had an answer there, but that girl in the mirror wasn’t me. It may look like me, do things like I do, but I know it is not me.

She’s different to me. She’s a smart, young student, hyper and full of fun. She’s artistic and dramatic; she has a nice singing voice. She’s the person that has heaps of good friends; she’s not popular, but she doesn’t have to be.

She’s all that I want to be, she would be one of my perfect versions, ‘The perfect student’.

Of coarse that isn’t really me.

--

I’m standing in the shower, I stand in the shower letting water fall over me, over my head, my back, my legs, over my face to drip down my nose as I stare up into the shower head that reflects someone back at me, but all I see is a face, and she is not me.

Her face is wet and shiny as the steam flies past, her short brown hair full of shampoo that washes down her face and neck and over her shoulders, but never in her eyes. Her eyes are shining with a light that isn’t there, making her look wild and free.

How I want to be her. She is ‘The wild water child’ that I see in reflections off water, but that is not me. I’m not wild, and I’m far from free.

I want to be her, but it’s not me.

--

I am sitting down at my desk, I sit starring into my window looking at the girl who looks back at me angrily.

Her short brown hair stands on end as if she was struck with lightning, her fine eyebrows are crinkled together, her jaw set, in her blue-grey eyes; the world is burning.

She is confident, loud, and often rude. She has a hot temper, and she’s not afraid to tell who ever it is that their pissing her off, and they better watch their back. She’s tough, rough; she’s a girl who could look after herself.

Sometimes I want to be her. She is “The rebel” that I see in my reflection when I’m alone, being angary in my room. But that is not me. I could never confront the person I’m angary with, or even be any kind of rebel.

She is what I sometimes want to be, but it’s not me.