Untitled

?

Who needs a title.
Who can see it anyway.
Lots of people. Everyone.
But not me.

My head swirls as colours pour from the wall before me. I close  my eyes. Too much plastic. I could choose a metal pair. I could just reach up, grab the purple rectangles, and fake a smile. Done. But what good would that do for me? I'd just end up with an old Diego bandaid wrapped around the glasses, dad searching for the broken nose piece behind the couch. Like last time.

" Any of these would look amazing on you, Abby. You're so lucky."
Am I really? All those magazines. All those model faces. I turn to the mirror. I see the face I do everyday, but now without the disguise. Years of wearing glasses has caused a slim, white line across the bridge of my nose, shaping the bone. I'm trapped behind these plastic frames.

Vision or .. Beauty? No. Not really. I'm not beautiful. And I've tried contacts.
But does beauty really exist? Or is it just through the eyes? Maybe I can't see it, just like how I can't see the whiteboard at the front of the classroom without my glasses. Just like how I squint so hard I get a headache, Mme's sloppy handwriting morphing into fuzzy red and black illusions. I close my eyes.

I hate beauty and I don't care- My brother, Ben.