The style I like isn’t the style that fits me. I want something that makes me seem
better than I really am.
Why can’t I just be pretty?
Why can’t I just be beautiful, like everyone else? Every girl I see is striking, like a star.
Yet here I am. I’m not cutesy or sexy, I’m not hipster, modern.
What am I? Why can’t I be like them? Why can’t I copy their styles, and look like them? Why can’t I reiterate what they do, reverb what they say?
Why is what I do so wrong, when what they do is so right? What I want is only to be admired like I admire them. Why are they so perfect, when I’m so flawed?
Can someone just explain it? Can someone just tell me why? I’m such a ditz, such a weirdo. Why can’t I do this one thing?
Beauty is fleeting, they say. Has my beauty flown away, before I even realized it was there? Why didn’t you tell me it had gone? Why are you so great, when I’m just not?
Why can’t I just be you?
Pink or black, it’s always the same. Always changing, always different. Yet always the same as us.
You’re style is the style of us. Your style is not something you chose. It’s something you copied, from a copy themselves.
Your beauty was shattered like a mirror when you reflected us. Your style was unique, not a copy. You may have forgotten, but I haven’t.
We are just copies of one another, and even if I am cute and she is sexy, we aren’t really different. You see, you were the real different one.
You were the original, from which the copies were made. Your style was flawless and amazing, unlike ours. I am just a copy of you. An indirect copy of you.
I am not beautiful if you are not. You are what you think I am. You make think I’m striking, I’m a star. But a star will fade into the darkness eventually, and nothing is left.
I will be copied from. I will be thought of as beautiful. I will be thought of as great.
But you’re the only true great one. Why can’t you understand? Why can’t I tell you? Please, hear my words.
Your style is your own, it is what makes you, you. You are what you want. You are the original, and in truth I am just a copy.
Why can’t you just accept that?
Black matches with pink.
But neither was you in the first place.
No style fits me, no matter how much I try. I’m not pretty, I’m not admired. I’m loveless, I’m ugly. Why can’t I just be beautiful, if only for a moment?
The styles you try on not your style, because they are only copies. Like a piece of gum, a style can only be used by the first to try it.
Please, just let me be like you. I want to shine, with light.
Don’t be me, be you. I am not what you really want, am I? Truly, what do you really want? What is it that tugs that the depths of your heart, what is it that asks to be heard?
What is it that begs of me to be heard? I don’t understand, I just want to be pretty like you.
No, it’s not me who you really and truly want to be. You want to be the original that you once were, the one that started us all. We could never be without you. We are only the darkness that envelopes your shine, hiding it from your eyes. But we see it, the bright light.
But my beauty has already flown from me.
No, your beauty has just begun. Because true beauty shows when you realize it yourself.
I could write a million things about me, but I guess that wouldn’t be interesting to such a busy person that is you. My name is Abby Lee, a high schooler on the east coast. I’ve been writing stories, poems, and just general prose since I was a child, and recently I’ve decided to try and publish some of my better works. (Not the ones from when I was eight, just so you know). I probably could say more, but I’m not sure what could catch your favor. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my little story, and I truly thank you for your time.