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Prettier

“Who does she think she is?”

That one whisper is all it takes.
Suddenly, she’s the talk of our gossip, the one we all mentally attack.
We attack her because her skin is flawless, because she knows the proper way to apply make up, because all her clothes fit her perfect.
We hate her because she not skinny enough to be skinny or fat enough to be fat.
We hate her because all the guys love her.
And we hate her because she’s so damn oblivious to it.
But mostly, we hate her because she’s so fragile, so innocent, and so easy to tear down; because she’s too “good” to put up a fight.
We talk about her, and make up rumors, make it so that she’ll never realize how pretty she is.
Because if we can make her feel like crap, then maybe that’s just what she’ll be; since we don’t know how to build up our own self esteems, we can just tear hers down until she’s below us all.
It’s not fair though, for her to have the personality and the looks. We hate her cause she’s so damn likable.
She doesn’t curse, she doesn’t make fun of others, she’s respectful, and dare we say it; a genuinely good person.
But when the bell rings and it’s lunch time, we all separate into our groups, and seclude her.
She doesn’t dare sit with the boys or we’ll call her a w****, we’ll just spread yet another false rumor.
So she sits alone.
And for just a second, when she lowers her head and pouts to herself we all feel just a bit prettier, a bit more special because we all have friends to sit with.
We feel just a little more like what we imagine she must feel like everyday when she looks into the mirror and sees that perfect face staring back at her.
We feel the same feeling we never want her to feel again.
She thinks it’s not fair.
I bet she asks herself “why?” all the time.
Well, we do too.
She thinks it’s not fair we exclude her.
We think it’s not fair that she’s so pretty, so perfect.
So we’ll break her, rip her to shreds.
We’ll destroy every ounce of self security she has. We’ll make her feel like trash to such an extreme that she’ll become just that.
You know what the worse thing is? Every time we make her cry, after the feeling of superiority fades, we just feel even worse about ourselves.
Now is that fair? Is it fair that she gets to be beautiful and feel good about herself, when we have neither?
That’s why we do it. We have to tear her down. We have to teach her a lesson, to stop rubbing it in.
We need to teach her that a pretty face means nothing, and she can’t act so happy cause she’s pretty.
Life isn’t perfect, nothing is perfect! So why do you come so damn close?
A rose isn’t meant to survive amongst the weeds; they’ll strangle it to death.
Poison it until it fades, and becomes yet another blemish in the yard of reality.
How am I ever supposed to feel better about myself when you’re prancing around here perfect?
I hate you.
We hate you.
You’re ugly, worthless, stupid, and trash.
We’ll tell you this; make sure you know it.
Maybe we can actually get you to believe it. We’ll convince you of this because we can’t convince ourselves.
We won’t stop trying; we’ll keep on till we succeed.
We’ll make you forget, what we can’t help but remember.
We’ll make you forget the truth.
We’ll hide the reason we really hate you.
We’ll never let you realize you’re prettier.



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