seven-minute sonnet

A perfect couple caught my eye
upon the IRT one day.
The nose-pierced girl, the skinny guy--
such hipster love, I have to say
is something that my friends might scorn.
But guy and girl stood fresh-faced, tall,
their hands entwined, their Converse worn.
And looking down, I glanced at all
my imperfections, noting first
my bitten nails, my freckled face
my banged-up legs (and what was worst
and made me feel most out-of-place):
My hair a fuzz, my dress askew.
Oh, why can't I be more like you?