Sitting still, being forced to socialize with her.
Ignoring her snobby comments and Chanel purfume.
The look in her eyes confirms my suspicions.
She thinks she is better. Richer. Prettier.
She probably is.

She is beautiful. She is smart. She is perfect.
I envy her. I covet her clothing, friends and life.
She is everything I am not, and that I want to be.
She is thin, blonde and beautiful. She is loved.
Perfection.

But no. I am imperfect. I am not her.
I am unwanted. I am hurt I am angry.
I long to feel my fist connect with flesh and bone.
I want to feel blood on my knuckles.
I hate her.

For no legitimate reason, I want to hurt her.
I want to take the beauty from her face.
I want to make her outside match her inside.
I am shaking. My vision is blurry. I glare through unseeing eyes.
Irrational Hatred.