I hate the way her eyes scan me over with jealousy. She's so enviousm but what does she think I have that she doesn't? I'm the diluted image of my mother's beauty, yes, & she wants that. But she doesn't realize that full pouting lips, the large startled etes, the palest coffee-cream skin comes with strings attatched, a think contract she has no idea about, full of clauses & fees. the very last page reads 'Amelia', signed with my blood but written in my mother's decided, sure hand. She doesn't see all the chameleon shades in me, or how I need them just to get by. She has no idea of my longing, my yawning morning yearning for the way she's the same girl every day. I admire he belief in (the lie) that no one can **** with her, while every person I meet makes something in me panic, wondering if they'll be the next to discard me after taking me out & finding that I'm both too much to handle & not enough to stick around for. She can shrug off a punch & barrel through a crowd, moses to any sea, any shore she finds herself at the edge of, while the simple swat of an absent hand creates ripples & gusts that send me tumbling, toppling *** over teakettle. She scans aisles of people, tasting, testing any that are above her minimum standard, but I've never had that kind of freedom; I've always been a sample, appetizer, appease me, please me. babe. She knows as well as I do the desperation for approval, for being desired, but the difference between us is that she refuses to change for anyone but herself while I need people to give me someone to be.