The Other Girls

The other girls used to make me cry. I would say that tears flowed like a river, but that would be too cliche.

The other girls used to laugh. Mostly at me. I saw the looks and the smirks at my pink tights and funky hair. I heard the whispers and felt the glances. Maybe I should assume the other girls were admiring my fantastic fashion forwardness. Maybe. But then I remember that they are the other girls.

They are the girls with the perfect waist size, glistening smiles, and with my crush always hanging on them.

The other girls. They smelled like cotton candy with the heavy doses of Brittney Spears perfume. Ah, the other girls with their high expectations of wearing that pretty dress and staying in that comfortable spot I identify as mediocre.

The other girls. They taught me to fear myself, control sparks of personality, and by all means, do NOT wear the pink tights.

The other girls. For years the pressure escalated until finally - a realization.

The other girls laugh at me, while I can laugh at myself. Which means I live with a constant comedian called my brain. I win.

The other girls stare at themselves in the mirror for unreasonable lengths of time. But when the make-up comes off, I win.

The other girls can wear the perfect size and find the perfect clothes that will never match their empty and shallow personalities. I win.

I laugh too loudly, cry to despairingly, write to abstractly, don't eat sparingly, make-up is my enemy.

But FYI, other girls, I live fully.