Oh, Girls.

Oh, girls.

When she walks past me, I wish to tell the world she is not a beautiful as she regards herself to be. I wish to tell the world all the horrible things that she has done. I wish to tell the world all the things that she has said to me. I wish to tell the world all the ways she has looked at me. I wish to tell the world all the pain that she has inflicted on others. I wish to tell the world she is not as nice as everyone thinks she is. I wish.

But do I really want to?

If I tell the world who she really is, she would lose her friends and the people who love her. Then, she would be alone and because of who she is and her personality, she would not be able to handle all the loneliness that a community can give. She would be sad and she would not be able to walk that confidently anymore.

Or maybe she could because she wouldn’t care. She would still regard herself as perfect and beautiful and modest and retiring.

Then, I would be hated because I am spreading news about a popular who is loved by the world because her jokes and insults are funny. She would still be popular because she can afford to give out pretty things to pretty little people. 

And I would still be sad and miserable and because I have told the world about her, they would regard me as someone horrible and not her even though she is the mastermind of all evilness. The world would still look at me like I am nothing and I am evil because girls like me should not be talking about girls like her. Who made this limits? Who determined who talks to who and who determines who walks the runway? Why are we so condemned when the one main difference we have is that I love to be alone and not socialize while she spends her time socializing around? Who gave her the right to look down on people? Who gave her the rights to hurt someone so deeply and at the end of the day, she would say that we are the horrible creatures?

Oh, girls. 

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