Shattered Reflections

She wasn’t pretty. I didn’t like her much, she wasn’t nice. she didn’t care about others, but people tolerated her. It’s funny how it seemed like they had no choice but to stick around; like she forced them to stay. It wasn’t always like that though. There was time she didn’t know how to stay.

She wasn’t popular. But she had friends and knew her fair share of people. That didn’t mean they all liked her though. She knows, that people talk about her, I’ve seen the way she reacts. I never liked her either but she talks to me all the time even though she knows. We’re the same, but for some reason people never stuck around me like they did to her, they don’t even know I exist. I could tell, I always could – she was like the other half of me – she was never real. Never sincere. And I hated her for it.

I didn’t exist for anyone other than her. I am invisible; like a plaque in her mind, made just to corrupt her. I never liked her, and she knows, ofcourse she does, she already let me into the deepest parts of her worthless brain. She believed me and just like that I infected her whole.

She wasn’t the best at hiding how she felt. Maybe she never said them out loud but anyone could tell.

She wasn’t strong. A very weak person.

She was insecure. Anyone could tell. I don’t blame her for it, if I looked like that I would be too. Her face was dull but always laughed too loud. Too fake. Her eyes were prominent with those bags under them. She had a smile though. People could tell it wasn’t real. Sometimes I didn’t even know why she was still trying.

She never cared about what people thought. She would tell me. But whatever she meant, I know she care about what I said.

She had people. But she was never grateful for them. We are the same.

I never knew her well. She talked to me all the time but never hinted at anything. She was like a canvas painted black. You never knew what was going to be under that thick layer of paint. Whether it was a blank page or completely filled to the brim with ugly colors.

I hate her; It was one of the things we always bonded over because we were the same. She was me.

But I don’t think of her when I glance over the edge of the building or as I take in the beautiful painting of the miniature world she never deserved.

I don’t think of her when I push her off and my body crumbles down fast and violently like there was nothing left to hold me back.

I was never pretty; never felt that way either, but as I wait for the darkness to consume me whole, I’ve never felt more beautiful, even as I lay there messy.