March 26, 2012
By Anonymous

She’s always better. Everything we do, she beats me. No-she wins. She strides past me, unaware of the hatred in my heart. My gaze follows her every move, her every shift. She crosses her long, slender legs, or flips her wavy brown hair behind her shoulder. I see it. I see it all.

She’s the ‘popular girl.’ She has the best looks, the best grades, the best boyfriend. She has it all to my nothing. How can any one person have it all perfect? She does. I hate her for it.

The rest of us, we call them ‘Barbies.’ They don’t know it. No one we don’t want to know it does. They are barbies though. They look perfect, walk perfect, talk perfect. But inside they are plastic, fake. I hate them all. But her the most.
She has a flawless, smooth, symmetrical face. Her eyes are intriguing, mysterious, beautiful.

That word is her. Beautiful. In gym, she folds in half. Backwards. Yet when she stands, every hair falls back into place. I think she must spend hours in front of the mirror, making herself perfect.
No one thinks I care. I do. At least on the inside. I don’t show it. I can’t.
She smiles and they fall like flies. She takes pictures and makes art that win awards. I’m invisible. No one cares when I get a B. No one cares when I do the impossible. No one cares when I fall.
She breaks a nail and goes to the hospital. She says the wrong answer and the teacher changes their own. She says the obvious, and it becomes a famous quote.
I hate her. She’s my sister.

The author's comments:
This isn't about anyone in particular. Just many people, many things, rolled into one. Heck, I might even be 'her' sometimes.

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