Just Like Me

She always eats her vegetables first. The peas are forked to one side and the carrots to another, with precision that speaks of habit. Her hands move the cutlery just like mine do, neat and controlled. When she leaves the table, just like me, she offers to clean up.

She looks like me, but her eyes are deeper. Her smile can make you think of angel’s halo.

She reads the same books I do, but her passion for them is more vivid. When she talks about things she loves, she glows with the brilliance of fireworks, and it makes her beautiful. When I do it, I’m told it seems my marbles need looking for.

Her resolves are fierce and startling just like mine, but while I hold on to them – inflexible and rigid, she can be persuaded to sway from side to side.

Just like me she’ll hum George Michael until it drives you nuts, but she wouldn’t curse you to decay and destruction if you told her he was sappy. I would.

When she writes, she pours out her heart, warding off molds, just like me. But even though she weaves her words exactly the way I do, she always hits bull’s eye, and mine seem to drift off.

To the stranger on the sidewalk, we’re really the same. From the length of our hair to the shapes of our face, from the way we move when we ‘hasten’, to the way we try out hairstyles and then think longingly of sneaking into a loo and tying it all back.

We’re like a venn diagram that has some elements in common, and in others, could not be more distinct.

I give her the crown of being the better version; the one that has a bounce in her step, so unlike my slouch. She’ll give people the satisfaction of protecting her, while I always question ‘what from’. She’s the girl men dream about, and I’m their Femi-Nazi nightmare.

She accepts vulnerability and cuddles sweetly with her ghosts, while I fight them through sleepless nights.

She is gracious where I am awkward. She fits in place where I rebel in futility. She is the definition of grace and I define the girl who trips on every log on the way.

When faced with adversity, she’s lot more like rock -steady and strong, I’m a lot more like volcano –erupting and disruptive. If my body were the Bennets, I’d call her the Jane to my Elizabeth.

Sometimes she creeps up on me and hogs my thoughts. She’s shy. Precious. Breakable.

From her stems a lifestyle aspiration. To be part of a society where I can embody her. A person who can embrace her warmth and asymmetry and not treat her like a lego house – to be broken down and rebuilt fancier. Someone who can bask in her sunshine and take her as she is.

Immaculate and imperfect.