Distortions

When she looks in the mirror, she imagines herself beautiful. Much different from the oddly plain, bushy haired person that is reflecting back at her. If she stares long enough, her visage blurs, her features distort. She wonders if they look prettier that way.

Eyes locked on the mirror, she fiddles with her hair. Wrapping it into some muddled version of a French twist, she turns her head this way and that before dropping the heavy strands with a frown. She wonders what she would look like with tamer hair. Hair that is sleek and shiny and luxurious. Hair that catches the eye instead of shocking it. She squints her eyes and tilts her head, imagining her hair with different textures or in different colours. Anything other than its current state.

She had had pretty hair once. For a fleeting moment she had caught the eyes of those around her. For a moment she had been the swan instead of the duckling. But moments are short and fleeting. Nothing lasts forever. And- when the next day came, she returned to normal, once again feeling slightly odd in a world full of beauty.

She looks away for a moment, ashamed at her thoughts. It must be wrong to be so unsatisfied with oneself. She vows to stop. Biting her lip, she tells herself to get up and move away from the mirror. She knows that she shouldn't, but against her will her eyes once again drift back to the mirror. There are so many problems. So many things she wishes she could change.

She pinches the tip of her nose, wondering if it would be prettier if only a tad bit smaller. Perhaps if the bridge was slimmer and her nose a little less bulbous, perhaps if she had a button shaped nose...perhaps. There were so many 'perhaps.'

Dull, brown eyes stare at her as though begging her to change them. She wishes they would distort and then shift and morph into a more agreeable colour. A colour that people would spend hours trying to describe but are never quite able too. A colour other than dull, boring, stupid, old brown.

Sighing heavily, she pulls her hair away from her face and begins to tie it into a bun. Still unable to move away, she sits. She sits and she stares and she wonders. Wonders that if maybe, just maybe she was pretty, he might have noticed. Maybe he might have been brave enough to chalk up enough courage to tell her...

Tell her anything.

But instead, she waits. She waits and she wonders and sometimes, sometimes she becomes so angry that she cries. She knows she should hate him. Hate him for not noticing; hate him for being blind. Hate him for not realizing how utterly jealous he makes her when he drools over other girls.

She knows that she's cared for longer than she bothers to remember. And she knows that no manner of convincing herself otherwise will make her forget him. Sometimes she wishes things were different. Sometimes she wishes life had given her a better hand.

But, mainly, she just wishes he'd see.