Not Good Enough

The Night You Can't Stop Seeing It ~Chapter 2

School.

My nightmare, where I see him everyday, and know that he thinks of me as his tomboy friend.

I know that I'm not good enough for him.

He's so kind, and smart, and perfect.

'And I'm me...'

I'm snapped out of my daze as my best friend Amy runs over to me. Our bus stop is the same, but all I can think about is him sitting across from us on the bus and laughing at our stupid comments.

"Lily come on! The bus is coming!" Amy cries running up to the door. 'She always has so much energy, that's why boys loved her.' Your mind started to wander again...

School goes on as usual, talking with friends holding back tears as you see him hugging one of your other best friends. Then going home and writing in your feelings journal, in which you write everything you need to get out before bed every night.

Tonights entry is the second of the school year. You pull out your black ink pen, and start writing in the best handwriting you can create.

He hugged her.

Ella. The girl I've known since preschool. That has never quite gotten the hint that I like him, a lot.

I've always known that she's perfect. She has the smarts, the talent, the beauty, and her love for girly things.

They say that boys can fall in love with the tomboys, the girls that play sports that aren't girly, but how can you believe that when the girls in pink always get the guy?

Ella, Rose, and Amy are all perfectly girly. Wearing skirts or dresses to school, when I wear skinny jeans and loose tank tops with jackets. The boys go after them, and they always say that they know boys who like me, but how could they?

I start to become insecure around my friends because they're all so perfect.

My favorite color isn't pink or purple. It's green. (Lime green to be exact.)

I don't listen to pop music like Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez, because they're so beautiful and perfect too. I listen to Billy Joel, Shawn Mendes, and Jack Johnson. (Not the viner.)

I write, but not love stories like other girls. I write what I feel and it becomes a big jumble of thoughts that bounce through my head and get messily scribbled onto paper.

I can't compare to those girls, let alone my best friends. It would be easier if I could just be like those girls on magazine covers, with a girly life, but I'm me. 

Oh if I could be like Ella and Rose and Amy, then I could be pretty.

Then I could be skinny.

Then I could be sweet.

Then maybe he would like me...

I finish writing for the night, putting my black notebook back under my bed, and let out a sigh as I think about my life. The tears start to fall, like a waterfall falling onto my sky blue bed spread. It's 12, and I cry for about 5 or 10 minutes, before I fall into a deep sleep. Dreaming that I could be beautiful...