I hate her. The way she peels off her skin in front of me and teases me with a cunning smile annoys me. She harms herself when I smirk at her, and smiles at me then. I look away from her, not knowing whether she is looking back at me.
She has scars all over her face. No! Not acne marks, like my sister. Looks like the scars come from a beast that has once eaten, all she’s ever had. The beast must have long nails. The nails must be of metal, some warm metal that must have burned her face in places. Oh, how long it has been a beast fell in love with a beauty?
She’s of my age, then why does she squint at me in a minute and widen her eyes in the next? Why does she pick her nose in front of me and tries sticking it on me, and ends up sticking it on herself? Once, she wore a lipstick that didn’t look good on her. Her face looked awful. She came closer to me, and tried kissing me, moved away in the next moment because I spat on her face. She cried, yelled and walked away in the same manner I did. However, I cannot see her pulling hair out of her head and shedding tears, all at once. She laughed at me, pointing at my face today and asked me if I have ever looked at myself in the mirror. I answered that I have.
Because I do look at myself in the mirror. But when I do, I see her.
And when I tell my mom about it, she kisses me. Not her.