Sycamores and Maples

Comparing myself to others is one of my major faults. I have a lot of flaws, most of which you've probably already read about. But this one's different, because it's something I have always done. It didn't just start when I was injected with a flavorful mixture of teen angst and hormones. It's a personality trait I suppose. And I know I shouldn't do it because everyone has something to be ashamed of. But that doesn't stop me. I can't stand in a room with another girl without looking her over, sizing her up, and then making myself feel terrible because she has something I don't. Maybe she just has nice eyes; it doesn't matter, because suddenly I'll hate my eyes and want hers. We're like trees. We're not all the same, we have different blossoms, different shaped leaves. There's a willow with her long, wispy branches and her delicate flowers. There's a birch with her beautiful, pale bark and her nice, green leaves. And then there's me an average tree. No one bothers remembering what type because there's nothing important to forget. I'm in a forest of magnificent trees with blooming and bursting with life. And then there's me a scraggly, skinny tree with lanky branches and withering leaves. I'm nothing compared to them. I want to be glorious like everyone else. However, I can't, it's really impossible. Because I'm just a plain old poplar and they're all blue jacarandas. But on the other hand I don't think I'd be able to handle being something so beautiful. Because everyone wants to be you and there's so much pressure to be perfect. When you're beautiful people pick your flowers off, carve their names into your trunk, and chop you down. They process you into floorboards and instruments. And then what are you? Just something for people to use and disregard. Something that no one really cares about, as long as you look good, right? You're not anything special anymore because you're just like everyone else. And then one day you break, your floorboard cracks and your instrument snaps. Then they'll just replace you. So maybe being a boring, old, durable tree isn't all that bad. I'm trustworthy, respectful, and you can always count on me. People won't bother chopping, picking, or carving me. Except for me. I chop my confidence. I pick apart my flaws. I carve away at my soul. I will be the death of me.