Evanna Montgomery {D8} WIP

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When I dance, I feel beautiful, and I feel like I can fly. Like I am but a feather, dancing along with the wind as it swirls along in the air. Like I am a bird, soaring and flying to wherever my heart desired. I think that's why I enjoy it so much. Just the fact that when I put on my shoes and walk out onto the wood floor and just twirl like nobody else is around, I am free in mind and heart.

But I guess there is a difference between feeling beautiful and being beautiful. I for one, am not beautiful. At least not in my opinion. When I practice alone in late hours of the night and stare at myself in the mirror, I can not see beauty in myself, even though I know I should. I had always been able to see the beauty in everything, whether it was a dazzling skirt I had seen in a store or a garbage bag rolling along in a street. But I have just never been able to pick out beauty from within the large mirrors that are all stuck to the one, huge wall of the dance studio.

A few days ago in fact, I stopped dancing and I stared at myself. I didn't do anything else but just stare at the reflection looking back at me and examine. I had been dancing late at night, practicing a tricky routine, and I stopped when I got close to the mirror. It was late, and I was tired, so I thought I saw something in the mirror and stopped to make sure nothing was there, but only found myself. It was peculiar, to kind of examine every last detail of yourself, especially when you have seen yourself hundreds upon thousands of times. Because then you start to notice things. A scar on your upper lip. A slight difference between your eyebrows. Oily skin. Uneven skin tones. But even as someone who can see the beauty in everything, I could not see the beauty within myself. And the monster I believe I saw in the mirror was me.

I wish people would stop telling me that I am beautiful. It hurts me to know that they are lying to make me feel better. Besides, I look like pretty much everybody else. There is nothing so unique or special about my curious sky blue eyes, and there is nothing so unique about my fire-related hair. There is nothing unique about my pale skin and there is nothing unique about the bones that pop out of too-tight skin. I am like everybody else, and I wish people would never ever feel the need to lie to me. Why would someone lie to me? Do I always look so depressed, with the dark bags that hang low under my eyelids, that I look like I absolutely need to be told something untrue?

Sometimes I wonder what people see in me. I’m not much, to be honest. And literally, there is not much of me even there. I am but of sticks and twigs, and I could swear that I have the bone structure of those doves I love so much. If there’s truly anybody to look at, it would be my sister. She’s gorgeous head to toe, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody in my seventeen years that could outweigh her beauty. I guess I sort of idolize my sister – she’s older than me after all. She, however, tells me that I’m better than her. And that hurts my feelings because I know I’m not.