Her

Look at her.

She’s perfect.

Every guy loves her.

Look at her.

In her cheerleader clothes and perfect body.

Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect face, perfect life, perfect friends.

She is what girls like me hate and envy at the same time.

She is what people expect us to be.

She is Perfection.

Now look at me.

Ask me if I care that I am wearing a black top and a pair of baggy dark green pants, while she is wearing dainty pink and yellow.

Ask me if I care that I’ve never had a boyfriend; never even kissed a guy.

I can tell you right now what my answer would be.

Do I care?

Of course, I’ll tell you no.

I’ll ask why you do.

I’ll say that I don’t see why that is what we are expected to be.

I’ll tell you that I used to care what you thought, but not anymore.

That I used to try and be like her, but I got tired of playing make-believe.

People change?

No, they just stop pretending.

And before I stalk off, I’ll tell you to wake up and smell the hairspray you left in your hair last night.

I’ll say that at least I can wake up and smell the roses.

I’ll tell you that I can honestly say that I don’t care about your expectations.

Got it?

But then, once I turn my back to you and walk away, I’ll try to keep convincing myself that those harsh words I said to you are true.

But by the time I reach my home, and fall back onto my bed, tears will well up in my eyes like they do every evening.

I’ll pound the wall in realization that maybe, I haven’t gotten past that stage in my life.

Maybe, I want to be just like her.

But, of course, I’ll never tell you that.