When I was five, I loved myself. Or rather didnt even care what I looked like. Just as long as I was having fun. Other girls were having tea-parties and wearing tiaras. According to my mom, they were perfect little girls. But I was kicking around a football and rolling in the dirt. I would go home covered in mud but still smiling. My mother would say that I needed to change myself. I made a mental promise not to. A promise that didnt last long. When I turned thirteen, I would see girls walking in the hallway. Tall, thin girls.With a lovely oval face, rosy cheeks and pretty eyes. Everything about them seemed so perfect to me. Their pink dresses, their posture and their beauty. They were perfect girls. And I was a nerdy girl, with short brown hair, glasses and dimples. My face was round and pale.My eyes brown. I was bullied and pushed around. Everyday I was reminded of who I should be and who I should not be. I realised that girls didnt need to be intelligent, or kind or even strong. I just had to be beautiful. I hated myself now. I wanted to change myself. So I stopped wearing glasses, no matter how blurry my vision got. I starting wearing stylish fancy outfits of colors I didnt even like. But it didnt matter what I thought. I started starving myself just to be thin. Months passed. I changed. My hair was long and straight. I had to use dozens of deodrents and shampoos to set it down. I was thinner now. I started using contact lenses. My mother said I was fine now. But my grades started slipping. I went from A to D. I was invited on the pretty girls table and everyday, I had to pretend I was interested in the latest fashion and blahblahBlah! When I look at the
mirror, I see a complete stranger. I lost myself. I live somebody elses life now.
I was a unique piece of art that society moulded into a common painting. I am a walking zombie. But who cares, I am still a perfect girl.