she stared at her hands

(hands not meant to win, not meant to do, they'd told her-)

it was hard, so hard sometimes

to be the only average one

in a room full of extraordinary people

(always extra-smart, extra-pretty, extra-perfect, but she'd never be extra-anything)

she tried so hard, to hard,

but she'd never been told you could tr you're best and still fail

(you never answered my question;why don't i ever win? why not me? why not-)

"you look a little pale, sweetheart, how are you feeling?"

her answer was underlined by hurt, italicized by bitterness

"perfect."

(i hate you. i hate-)

she left the room, turned away in disgust, sorrow and realization.

feeling her back pierced with stares like a staple to her heart

(she'd always known she'd never live up to her expectations, anyways)

and she ran

ran far from all the perfect people in the perfect world she'd never be part of

from the red marks covering her writing piece like music on paper

playing the same words over and over again, a broken record

(failure, you're a failure, you're a-)

she felt cold and stripped and raw

feelings that couldn't come just from the icy wind and biting rain

(is this her happy ending? is she happy? is she-)

but the rain warmed her as she ran, and she thought it

felt like kisses on her nose and shoulders