Category : Stories

Sub Category : YoungAdult

The woman in the painting is beautiful. More beautiful than I'll ever be. 
Her lips, they shine. They are soft, and untouched by lies. Mine will never be that pure.
Her eyes, they are comforting. As you look into them, you will feel safe, and at home. Mine are unruly and mean. Glaring at you every second.
Her face is like that of a friend. Kind and trustworthy. You would spill every secret to this woman, without knowing her name. Mine is scared and blemished, you could back away, frightened by me.
Her hair is a calm river. Flowing past her shoulders, not a strand out of place. I haven't brushed mine in a while.
But her soul is the most unlike mine. Hers is pure, knowing no evil in this world.
Mine is black, with no pureness left. I am the evil in the world.
So I stare at the woman in the painting, longing to be her. To be perfect. To shed this dirty skin, and join the world she lives in. With no evil, no trials. No problems. 
But for now, I can only look. Comparing myself to her. Noticing every imperfection of my skin. Noticing every black mark in my soul.
Noticing every flaw in my ugly face.