Self Shadows

They tell us not to compare, but they hand us the tools— the mirror, the phone, the glossy pages of "perfect" lives we’ll never touch. She’s thinner. She’s prettier. She’s everything I’m not. And I’m here, counting flaws like beads, praying for a face that doesn’t feel real. Skin too rough, hips too wide, a stomach that folds like fabric— natural, they call it, but how can it feel natural when it feels like failure? I scroll, watch her lips curl in a smile that says she’s never known self-doubt. I scroll, watch her body move like a wave, while mine feels like a freak. It’s not envy— not exactly. It’s this quiet, choking thing, this scream I swallow every time I see a girl who’s better, and I wonder why I even try to compete. Because we’re all competing, right? Even when we smile at each other, compliment the dress, the hair, the laugh. We’re still measuring: Who wins? Who loses? And how did I end up on the bottom again? They say, “Love yourself,” but they don’t tell you how to stop hearing their voices— the ones that tell you to be less, or more, or different. She’s thinner. She’s prettier. She’s happier. And maybe it’s true. Or maybe she’s just another girl with her own mirror, her own battles, her own swallowed screams. We’re all stuck in this game we didn’t ask to play, and the only way to win is to stop keeping score. But how do you stop when everyone is always watching?