Am I Pretty?

My brother is the perfect male. He has those stunning eyes, smooth hair, he has all the friends a person could want, and on top of that he has this beautiful girlfriend to match. For a person who has everything, I guess it's easy to say "the glass is half full." But then again, for a person who has everything he is really humble and nice. He is always telling me that the only person more beautiful than his girlfriend is me, he tries to make me smile. I do, for him. But standing here on these frozen tiles, looking in the mirror, I cannot bring myself to believe him. Am I pretty?

My reflection begins to fog up, so I turn to step into the shower, the heat turning my skin red. Does anybody else's skin do that? Or is that another thing to add to my list of imperfections?

I separate a strand of hair from my mop and watch the frizz die down and turn an even darker brown than before as the water falls on and off it. I have such bad split ends, so my hair never grows. It's so curly and brown and just stupid. I can't even brush it without looking like I've been dragged through a gorse bush backwards. Like, why can't it be long and blonde and straight, like all the gorgeous girls in those glossy magazines? I could do it, if I had the money. Go to a hair salon, buy a straightener, get it dyed now and then...but I can't have any hope of that. I'm much too poor, and plus, my mum would kill me. "You're not being true to yourself" she would say. I don't get it though, why be true if no one likes the truth?

Oh well. Even if I had nice hair, my face is still a tragedy, especially without makeup. Dull brown eyes, a crooked nose from when I got kicked by a dumb horse, plus the scar along my cheek bone that was left. I can't see for the life of me either, so hideous glasses it is, twisting my face out of proportion and exaggerating the crookedness, why am I so cursed? While I'm at it I'll list everything else. I have a chest as flat as a twelve year old boy, girls two years younger have more shape than me, I eat too much and have a stomach which looks pregnant, my skin is so white and dry. Why? Why is it that I am stuck with gross, ugly genetics? Why do Taylor Swift and Katy Perry get perfect bodies and complexions and I'm left with nothing worse than dirt? I just...I just hate this! It's not fair that I have to deal with loneliness and bullying and what not, it's not fair that I have to try so hard, it's just not fair when others can just look great so effortlessly! I seriously am sick of living with this reflection every day. And I hate myself, like the rest of the world does. I hate myself and I want to get rid of the ugly dirt that clings to me. I begin frantically scrubbing the soap all over my body, trying to wash it off. I get back under the water to get off the slime. And I grab the shampoo to get the dirt out of my hair and I'm rubbing my head, ripping the knots out of my hair and I'm conditioning it - doing all I know to get clean. Doing all I've seen on TV to make me pretty. And I brush it out and I like the feeling when someone uses the water and it burns my skin for a few seconds. Someone as ugly as me deserves to be burnt. I turn my face into the water and away, trying to get the makeup off my face from yesterday, and trying to get off the fakeness and I'm clawing at my face, desperate to get it off to be normal and pretty. And my face is burning and stinging but I continue harshly rubbing my face and arms and clawing my skin and trying to get clean. And I turn down the water to cold, very cold and wash out what's left of the hair stuff, and I brush and brush and brush and scrub and claw and turn off the shower. I grab my hair, pulling it and wringing it getting out the dirty water. I grab the towel and quickly dry myself, then wipe the fog off the mirror. AAH! My reflection is horrifying! There are marks on my face from the clawing, and the acne stuff is super red. That's not going away anytime soon. My makeup is on my eyes still, all smudged up tragic, gothic panda eyes. I keep stopping myself from crying this whole time, what's the point? Actually, what is the point of all of this? No amount of cleaning will ever get the ugly dirt off my skin. I am ugly dirt, and soap isn't about to change that. I want to be like my brother and his girlfriend and those magazine ladies, but I can't and never will. I don't want to live with this reflection; I smack my fist right into the atrocious face staring back at me, and watch in fascination as the ugliness falls to the ground, smashing on the tiles and making my feet bleed. I gingerly pick up the deadliest shard, then grip it tight, slicing my hand and then drawing it up my arm. Blood is going everywhere and it is painful as hell, burning hot yet extremely cold, and sweat is beginning to run down my face. They won't miss me if I put myself out of my misery. Dirt belongs in the ground, so that's where I'll go. Dirt goes in the ground, that's where I'll go. Dirt...ground. I'll go there. I'll go --