She isn’t a beautiful girl, and she knows that. She hasn’t been since that family photo where she’s three; ringlets in her hair, gap in her teeth, and the Tazmanian Devil on a shirt that clearly isn’t hers. She hasn’t grown as much as expected since then. She has gained too much weight since then. Her teeth have gathered some stains, her hair won’t curl like that no matter what she pays, and that blue in her eyes has faded and softened with age. She knows she isn’t a beautiful girl.
She isn’t a brilliant girl, and she knows that. She didn’t manage an 1800 on her SAT. She failed two AP tests. She is lazy about homework and likely to be late. She asks obvious questions. She misspells grammer and defanitely. She was the best at poetry once, for a whole two minutes, but the glory was short lived. She comma splices even after she is taught the rules. She lacks common sense. She didn’t take precal in high school. She barely passed a physics class. Sometimes she says insensitive things, but it’s because she’s stupid, not because she’s cruel. She misuses words, and incorrectly conjugates verbs, when she talks too. She really isn’t brilliant, and she knows that.
She isn’t strong, and she knows that. She falls down and she always needs help up. Sometimes she needs help to carry her own. She drops pitchers of juice on the floor if she carries too many. She can’t ride her bike up that same hill she always forgets to take her E-brake off when she backs down it in her car. She cries when she gets yelled at. She cries when she has to say good-bye. She cries when she sees commercials for the Humane Society. She bruises easy. She calls her mom when she gets lost instead of looking at a map. She goes for ice cream instead of tutoring when she fails a test. She can’t be alone for a day at a time. She cries when she can’t bike all the way up that hill. She is not a strong girl and she knows it.
She isn’t your girl either. Not your girlfriend. Not your best friend. Not your baby. Not your fling. Not your someone special. Not your significant other. Not your other half. Not your mother. Not your little sister. Not your ride home. Not your lab partner. Not your turn around and smile at the girl three rows back and to the left. Not your property in all the ways she wishes to belong to someone. She isn’t your girl, and everyone knows that.
She isn’t beautiful. She isn’t strong or brilliant either. Don’t waste a second trying to fix her; she isn’t yours to change.