Your hair. It's disgusting. It's the ugliest shade of red I've ever
seen. It never looks washed. It never looks combed. I hate the way you
let it hang around your face. And when you wear it up, it looks
disgustingly worse.
Your eyes. They show no meaning to the world. Your eyes don't shine, they don't sparkle as if they had diamonds in them the ways the eyes of the other girls do. That brown is putrid. It's so dull and lifeless. You always look tired. Like you've cried. Like you've always cried. Do you cry? Are you that weak?
Your lips. So unkissable. So dry and cracked. So fake. So thin and Frail. That lipstick that you wear horribly clashes with every other wrong thing about you. And the way you gently nibble upon your bottom lip as you think is purely horrid.
The shape of your body. Could you be anymore overweight? Could your chest be any smaller? You go straight up and down. No curves like the others. Guys would never like you. How could they? I mean look at you.
Those clothes. They hang horribly upon your worn out body. They show too much of what you don't have. Of what you could never have.
You don't even have inner beauty. You have absolutely no true friends. No friends at that. No life. No love. He may say that he loves you. But he doesn't. He pities you. They all pity you.
I don't pity you. Not one bit. Not even a little. I plain out hate you. Everything about you. As I see it, a life like yours is a life wasted. You should be locked away from civilization. Far away. So as you can't waste our lives.
"Amy, quit talking to yourself in the mirror."
"Yes Matt."
You won't win this. You won't win this at all. In the end I will see to it that you lose. Lose it all. Like you always lose.
Your eyes. They show no meaning to the world. Your eyes don't shine, they don't sparkle as if they had diamonds in them the ways the eyes of the other girls do. That brown is putrid. It's so dull and lifeless. You always look tired. Like you've cried. Like you've always cried. Do you cry? Are you that weak?
Your lips. So unkissable. So dry and cracked. So fake. So thin and Frail. That lipstick that you wear horribly clashes with every other wrong thing about you. And the way you gently nibble upon your bottom lip as you think is purely horrid.
The shape of your body. Could you be anymore overweight? Could your chest be any smaller? You go straight up and down. No curves like the others. Guys would never like you. How could they? I mean look at you.
Those clothes. They hang horribly upon your worn out body. They show too much of what you don't have. Of what you could never have.
You don't even have inner beauty. You have absolutely no true friends. No friends at that. No life. No love. He may say that he loves you. But he doesn't. He pities you. They all pity you.
I don't pity you. Not one bit. Not even a little. I plain out hate you. Everything about you. As I see it, a life like yours is a life wasted. You should be locked away from civilization. Far away. So as you can't waste our lives.
"Amy, quit talking to yourself in the mirror."
"Yes Matt."
You won't win this. You won't win this at all. In the end I will see to it that you lose. Lose it all. Like you always lose.