Lacy

I hated her. From her hair on her head to the ornaments on her neck, I despised her. I hated her pretty face, her pretty neck, her long fingers and her golden curls. I hated how she looked like a goddess, and had the nerve to act like one as well. The hate was like poison to my blood. It made me bleed silently, it coagulated the blood going to my brain, and hurt me only, never her.

If Michelangelo were to make a sculpture of her, she would surely be put in a temple of Aphrodite, and revered, and worshipped. And Aphrodite herself wouldn't even have the heart to punish her for this.

Lacy doesn't need to wear makeup to look good. But she puts on lipstick anyways, because she likes to mark people. I imagine her slithering into beds, leaving stains everywhere, and there would be no one in the world that didn't know that she was there. But Lacy doesn't sleep around. No, she's too pure. Too pure for me to hate properly, so I must resort to cursing her like how Lucifer curses the Lord. I must look at her scarlet ribbons and want to wrap them around my neck, or better, hers. I want to grab her close then strangle her, then pull her corpse into an embrace.

She is beautiful. People are people, but surely they are not equal? I refuse to believe God took the same amount of care creating her as he did me. He must have crafted her, planned her, asked a rally of angels, and they would have said, "Of course, what a perfect human. Surely the sweetest of all humans."

I do not believe a single angel witnessed my creation. I am selfish. You must have noticed right? It's always about me, then about her. I must make everything about myself, because if the world will not care about me, then I must fill the gap in. I must care about myself enough to make up for the world of indifference that surrounds me.

That's the difference. Even someone as self-centered as I is forced to care about Lacy. She doesn't need to care for herself because every else will do it for her. And I care so much. I wear silver, even though I prefer gold, because gold reminds me too much of her, and I could definitely live without that comparison.

And how kind she is! How she glides through the school yard, catching eyes, gathering followers like Jesus did his disciples, but not even asking. Oh, she's never asked me, never even noticed me until late, but I've followed her. I linger like perfume at her side, but I am just one of many. She is Lacy. She will never fit into the populace of many.

The angel's themselves will shed tears when Lacy dies. The proud creation of the world, the emblem of human. Human's may be considered good if they were all Lacy's, but the problem is we're not.

Sometimes, I think Lacy is plotting against me. Sometimes, when I see her talking with the boy I like, melting him and molding him into anything she wants him to be, I get a sense of mirth. The idea that someone like her would be personally out to get me was far to prerogative for someone like. I like a lot of boys, a lot of boys like Lacy.

Lacy's skin is like puff pastries, her laugh like honey, and her compliments like bullets. For every kind thing she says, I bleed. I bleed because it is too late. I have already become one with my hatred, and now she burns me. She boils me like you boil water to get rid of its germs. But without my hatred, without my resentment, what would I be? What would make me special? I would just be another one of everyone else.

I cannot excel, I cannot be particularly exceptional in anyway, so the best I can do is hate someone that everyone else loves.

And I can't even do that right.