Who am I?

I am a moth.

I suppose I never really considered how appropriate that name was for me until now. I was always jealous of the pretty girls in my class who flitted like butterflies, bright, colourful and smiling in a way that drew smiles from others. They were glamorous, loved by all and like every shy, unpopular girl, I wanted to be just like them.

But I wasn't. My very name ensured I would never be like them.

I was not colourful. I was plain. I didn't flutter in the sunlight, but beat my tattered wings by the light of the moon or hiding in the dark. People looked at me with indifference or annoyance. Some kids even watched me with a sickly sort of fascination, as though they were wondering what would happen if they pulled off my wings, poked me and prodded me. Then the glamorous girls would enter and settle into their familiar state of being admired and crooned over.

When there is a butterfly in the room, who looks at a moth?