I don't look like her. My hair is frizzy and inconsistent. Her presence leaves its mark and I don't know if I've ever been that beautiful a moment of my life. I don't look like her and I wonder how she sees me. Does she know that I think being pretty is both a blessing and a curse? I don't think pretty girls realize the world is at their fingertips. We outsiders have to find something else to cling to; I'm still trying to figure out what that is for me.
I'm funny, but at my own expense. I don't know how to take myself seriously. I often feel like a fraud auditioning for parts everyone knows I'd be no good at. I am composed, but I am crumbling. I joke to distract from that. Laughing is easy, pretty is different—a different I don't know how to access.
That guy just smiled at me. I smile back and silently pray that I'll never see him again. Being his acquaintance is safe, that means feelings won't get involved. My feelings have a habit of betraying me. I will always long for the guys who slowly realize that fun is not a word in my vocabulary. So they will search somewhere else for fun, and for pretty; a perfect combination I will try time and again to be and end up feeling further away from belonging.
I can't wear what she wears. I can't fit her confident expression to my face. I can't wake and sleep with ease like she can, for I know I'll rise in the morning already overwhelmed by how disappointed the Universe is in my inability to shine. I walk around campus allowing my mind to run wild until I'm fifty shades of self-conscious and realize that I haven't taken a solid breath in minutes. I look at her and I look at him, and I wonder if we're all brutally alone with the baggage we assume no one else has the patience to carry. I know I'm impatient. I want to be fixed, but am too terrified to run diagnostics first. I am over-prepared, yet still identifying as a failure. I spend far too much time telling my soul to open up to the world, but it knows defeat all too well, therefore it must take baby steps. However, my baby steps tend to be excruciatingly unimpressive.
I am quiet. I am observant. I am easily moved by human decency and grasp onto that as the only worthwhile characteristic I have to offer. I am decent, just decent. Because being anything more, that's simply too many hats to wear. And the hat that suits me well, the hat I can't hang up or return—is anxiety. I am different. I am anxious. I am not like her. She is bold and beautiful. I am hesitant and hollow from years of wanting to be someone different.
I'm funny, but at my own expense. I don't know how to take myself seriously. I often feel like a fraud auditioning for parts everyone knows I'd be no good at. I am composed, but I am crumbling. I joke to distract from that. Laughing is easy, pretty is different—a different I don't know how to access.
That guy just smiled at me. I smile back and silently pray that I'll never see him again. Being his acquaintance is safe, that means feelings won't get involved. My feelings have a habit of betraying me. I will always long for the guys who slowly realize that fun is not a word in my vocabulary. So they will search somewhere else for fun, and for pretty; a perfect combination I will try time and again to be and end up feeling further away from belonging.
I can't wear what she wears. I can't fit her confident expression to my face. I can't wake and sleep with ease like she can, for I know I'll rise in the morning already overwhelmed by how disappointed the Universe is in my inability to shine. I walk around campus allowing my mind to run wild until I'm fifty shades of self-conscious and realize that I haven't taken a solid breath in minutes. I look at her and I look at him, and I wonder if we're all brutally alone with the baggage we assume no one else has the patience to carry. I know I'm impatient. I want to be fixed, but am too terrified to run diagnostics first. I am over-prepared, yet still identifying as a failure. I spend far too much time telling my soul to open up to the world, but it knows defeat all too well, therefore it must take baby steps. However, my baby steps tend to be excruciatingly unimpressive.
I am quiet. I am observant. I am easily moved by human decency and grasp onto that as the only worthwhile characteristic I have to offer. I am decent, just decent. Because being anything more, that's simply too many hats to wear. And the hat that suits me well, the hat I can't hang up or return—is anxiety. I am different. I am anxious. I am not like her. She is bold and beautiful. I am hesitant and hollow from years of wanting to be someone different.
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