8th grade.
That was the year everything
went to hell.
That was the year I went on a diet.
I decided to shed
my last shred
of dignity,
along with 60+ pounds
in order to impress the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I lied to my parents.
"Did you eat dinner?" they asked.
"Yes," I replied,
and they believed me.
They couldn't tell
that something wasn't quite right
with their perfect little girl,
who was starving for the perfect body,
and for attention from the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year teachers began to ask questions.
Mr. May, with the spiky hair and burly arms,
glanced suspiciously at my pale skin,
eerily translucent and decorated with bruises.
Mrs. Fitz, who had recently been on a diet herself,
always made sure that I had a lunch,
although she never made sure I ate it.
Mrs. *****, a small woman with a big personality,
used to make comments about eating disorders
just to get a rise out of me,
and when that didn't work,
she went a step farther.
Mr. Daley, the 7th and 8th grade guidance counselor,
consumed every lie I fed him,
and when I grabbed a Jolly Rancher off his desk
on my way back to class,
he smiled with triumph,
as if he had cured me,
but he didn't see me throw it away
as soon as I got home.
Those extra 15 calories
would have ruined my chances with the boy with the dark, curly hair.
That was the year I couldn't leave the house without a sweater
because, even on the warmest day, I couldn't stop shivering.
That was the year all of my hair fell out.
That was the year I lost most of my friends.
That was the year everything went to hell
because of a boy with dark, curly hair.

Yeah, you said it,
And maybe you meant it.
I’m sorry I can’t forget it,
But do you even regret it?
I sincerely doubt it,
Although I’m not mad about it.
I’m trying to move past it.
I just want to move past it.

If you want to impress me,
You have to surprise me.
You have to do
That last thing that I would ever expect you to do
And then keep doing that
Everyday.
You have to go against the norm.
You have to catch me off guard
And make me question everything I ever thought
To be true.
Yes, I might hate you for it,
But rest assured that I will be enthralled.
Hate and love are interchangeable,
Right?

We blame society for everything.
We fault magazines for turning innocent teenage girls
Into anorexic beauty queens.
We point fingers at the paper thin actresses on TV screens
For bringing bulimia victims to their knees,
******* down their throat as they cough up that last bit dinner,
Along with the guilt and shame that comes with it.
We blame society, but we are society.
Who wrote those magazines?
Who created the ridiculous standard that you can only fit in
If your bones are showing through your skin?
Hunger is just a feeling; thin is a skill.
Your stomach isn’t growling because you’re starving.
No! It’s applauding you on a job well done,
On another day of nothing but celery sticks and diet coke.
Who cares if all of your hair falls out?
Who cares if you get dizzy every time you stand?
Who cares if the desire to be thin and meet this sick standard of beauty
Is slowly killing you, taking another piece of that innocent teenage girl
And turning her into a skeleton?
We, as a society, don’t care.
The magazines won’t stop printing
Because another high school kid got carried away.
Extreme, even deadly diets are a thing of today,
And yes, yes, they’re here to stay.
Sometimes eating healthy and exercising just aren’t enough.
Desperate times call for desperate measures,
And under this kind of pressure,
It’s hard not to give in.

I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.

I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.

I don't have trust issues,
And I still advise you all:
Don’t get too attached to people,
For we are like water.
We can be calm,
Stagnant,
But we can also be wild, chaotic,
Dangerous,
Like a wave during a storm.
We are beautiful
But tragic and unpredictable,
And when you are least expecting it,
We might just disappear.

We were 5 years old when you asked me to marry you on the bus ride to school.
You told me you loved me more than anyone
And that you wanted to be with me forever.
We were 10 years old when you came over my house to play power rangers.
You always wanted me to be the pink one,
But I said no because my favorite color was yellow.
We were 12 years old when you got your first girlfriend.
You broke up with her a week later,
But I still cried when I found out.
We were 14 years old when you shared your headphones with me on that same ******* bus ride to school.
You wouldn't let me pick the song
Because you insisted I would like whatever you chose.
(And, believe it or not, I did.)
We were also 14 years old when we stopped talking.
You sat in the back of the bus,
I sat in the front,
And you listened to your music by yourself from that point on.

We were 18 years old when you took my virginity.
You were looking for an easy lay,
And I was just looking for a place to lie down.
The alcohol running through my veins
Told me it would be special if it was with you because deep down
I think I always knew that you were the first boy
I ever truly loved.
But when you pushed yourself inside of my drunken body,
Pleasing yourself as if I wasn't even there and then dashing off the moment you were done,
Leaving me naked and unclothed,
I knew that love was never mutual.

Maybe that's why I'm still writing about it eleven months later.

Don’t play the victim.
You took my virginity
on that chilly summer night
in our neighbor’s yard.
You were there,
completely sober,
coherent,
and I was there, too,
drunk on stolen wine
and barely able to walk
without assistance.
You told me
to lie down.
I obeyed.
You told me
to take off my clothes.
I obeyed.
Although my memory is hazy,
I know that
it happened.
Don’t tell your friends
that I made the whole thing up,
that I’m some attention-seeking *****
who’s obsessed with you.
Believe me,
if I wanted attention that badly,
I’d get it another way.
You’re a sick, twisted *******,
and, to be honest,
I pity you.
If you can only get it
from drunk girls,
you must not be that good.

I'm not cured,
I know that.
But something has changed.
I don't know if it's the new environment,
Or the people,
Or the lack of people,
But I'm not the same girl I was
Six days ago.
I'm no longer the teenage basket case
Who drinks alone
And pierces her own flesh
With a polka dot blade.
I haven't felt the need to starve
Or restrict
Or touch my collarbones
And my hips
Just to make sure they're still there.
I haven't looked at the mirror
In utter disgust
Or cried about the college boy
Who broke my heart.
Now I'm a college girl,
And I can be the heart breaker.
I can walk with my purple head held high
And smile because I know that I have finally
Won.

Some people are cuter in person.
I'm not.
I know how to hold the camera
so that my skin
looks flawless
and poreless,
and my body
looks thin
and lean,
but not too lean
(we don't want people asking questions).
I know the right angles use,
the right filters to disguise
the devastatingly average face
that God gave me.
I'm no model,
but I could certianly be a
photographer.

My therapist’s name is Beth.
She told me that I have
anxiety,
depression,
a lack of motivation,
and zero self-esteem.
She told me that I need to find
a hobby,
a pastime,
something that makes me “happy.”
She told me to focus on
my good qualities,
my strengths.
Please, Beth,
just give me some meds.

You don’t know me.
You don’t even realize
that something’s wrong,
that I’m not the little girl
I used to be.
You don’t realize
that the bandaged “mosquito bites”
on my arms and legs
are self-harm scars
that I’m too ashamed
to let you see.
You don’t realize
how much it stings
to watch almost every person
I’ve ever cared about
leave.
You don’t realize
that I still feel guilty
every time I eat.
You don’t realize
just how much I smoke
and how much I drink.
You don’t even realize
that you don’t know me.

“I can’t read your mind,” you say,
as if it's a bad thing.
If you could read my mind,
you would no longer look at me
with those adoring eyes of yours.
You wouldn’t make me breakfast
or hold my hand
or call me beautiful.
You probably wouldn’t call me
at all.
And I wouldn’t blame you.
If you could read my mind,
you’d see the darkness,
the hatred.
My kindness,
my innocence,
my “adorable” exterior
are works of fiction.
My heart is bitter and cold.
I am not “kind,”
by any means.
I may love you,
but you’re one of few.
Just be thankful
that you can’t read my mind.

There are a lot of things I ought to feel guilty for,
but being happy isn't one of them.
So why is it that after four years of hating myself
I feel bad for having the slightest bit of self-esteem?
Maybe it's because the people I used to suffer with
are still suffering.
Things aren't getting any better for them,
and there is nothing I can do to fix it.
Or maybe it's because I did nothing to earn this bliss.
All I did was move to a new city,
surround myself with new people,
and turn into a brutally honest *****.
I never meant to become so cold.
I guess I was just sick of being told
that I was too ******* passive.
I hated being passive,
being nice to people who I secretly loathed,
being the girl with the bright hair but the dull personality.
Yes, I have changed,
but I have transformed into a person that I kind of like.
So why do I feel so guilty?

Yesterday was our anniversary.
One year, to be exact.
I doubt you remembered.
I barely remembered.
But when I did,
It hit me.
All the pain from the last few months
Came at me
Full force,
And I didn’t think I would survive it.
I guess I’m still trying to figure out
How to survive it.

You can put all of yourself into someone or
Something,
But that doesn’t mean it will ever amount to
Anything.
In the end, you’ll just be miserable and
Alone.

Six months of
wishing,
wanting,
crying,
and trying
to be better,
to maintain a love that was tragically one-sided
and doomed from the start.

*******.

Six months of scars,
of long sleeved shirts
and pathetic excuses,
of lying to my parents
and telling myself,
"Things will get better."

*******.

Six months of long distance,
of broken promises,
missed phone calls,
and waiting for you to come home.

*******.

Six months of leading me on,
of empty words
and false I love you's,
said too soon and too often
but never truly meant.

*****. You.

It would be so much easier to blame
the boy who broke my heart,
the friends who left when they promised to stay,
the teacher who told me I talked too much,
the red-haired girl who bullied me in preschool,
my mother,
my father,
society,
anyone except myself.
But I'm an adult now, and I have to take responsibility
for ******* up my own life.

I think I led you on last night.
I didn't mean to, I swear,
but I was lonely
and drunk,
and the boy who got me drunk
took off in a hurry like always.
It started with a
"Hey, what are you up to?"
and turned into
me giving you an excerpt
from the sad, stupid story that is my life.
You listened carefully
and intently
as I poured another ******* piece of my heart out
to another ******* stranger.
When you walked me back to my dorm,
I said goodnight
and thanked you for keeping me company
and then quickly shut the door
because I knew that
you were hoping for more.
I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to lead you on.
But in my defense,
you should know better
than to fall for a girl
who gets drunk on a Tuesday night.

I don't hate you.
I hate myself
For letting it happen.
For saying yes
When I meant no.
For letting you touch me
And obeying your every command
To touch you.
For doing it not once
But twice,
Even though I knew I'd feel horrible.
Even though I still feel horrible.
I don't hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate myself.

I want to be in love.
I want my palms to sweat
And my heart to race
And my thoughts to be so tangled in love-struck confusion
That I can’t sleep
Or eat
Or think about anything else.
I want to throw away my inhibitions
And let raw emotion take over.
I want to **** with passion.
I want to scream.
I want to cry.
I want to laugh until my stomach hurts
And I can barely breathe.
I want moments that take my breath away.
I want to make memories.
I want to stay up until dawn just to watch the sunrise.
I want everything, but most of all,
I just want to feel.

He told me that he didn’t like his smile.
“It’s too big,” he said.
But little does he know that a smile like his
could light up an arena.

He told me that he didn’t like his voice.
“It sounds weird on tape,” he said.
But little does he know that a voice like his
could engage the toughest of crowds.

He told me that he didn’t like his laugh.
“It’s loud and obnoxious,” he said.
But little does he know that a laugh like his
could spread as if it were an infection.

He told me that he liked me.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
But little does he know that someone like him
could do so much better than someone like me.

At first, it feels as if you're being torn apart from the inside out,
Like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest,
And your whole body aches with sorrow.

Then the pain subsides and is replaced with numbness, nothingness.
The fire in your eyes turns into a faint flicker,
And consumed by emptiness, you start to miss the pain.

Eventually, you begin to feel again,
And the smallest reminder of him cuts you like a blade,
So you take that blade, red with relief, and drag it across your wrists.

You fake a smile and force a laugh
So people don't suspect that something's amiss.
After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds.

Except yours are still fresh.
The very thought of him slices deeper
Because you are unable to forget.

Most people
are scared of spiders
or heights
or being alone.
My biggest fear
is gaining weight.
Everytime my jeans feel a little tighter
or my thumb and my pointer finger
can't quite fit around my wrist,
I. Panic.
So then I skip a meal
or two
or three,
and the next thing I know,
I've gone days
with barely a thing to eat
and the very thought of food makes me feel ill.
People will tell me to eat,
beg me,
make me feel guilty for willfully starving
when the chlildren in Africa would ****
for my mediocre college meal plan.
So then I cave.
I eat
and eat
and eat
until they are satisfied,
until they say I've
"had enough,"
until I feel so sick
that all I can do
is make up an excuse about homework
and dash to the bathroom.
It turns out that my pointer finger
is good for something else, too.

It had been three weeks
Since my last encounter with the blade,
But when I awoke this morning
With a dull ache in my chest
And a pit in the bottom on my stomach,
I ran for it.

Still foggy with sleep,
I took the knife in my hands,
Traced it along my skin
Until I found the perfect spot
Two inches below my hip,
Just begging to be torn into.

One cut,
Two cuts,
Then three.
I stopped after that,
Feeling disoriented
But relieved
As the blood flowed to the surface
And dripped down my leg.

The sight comforted me
In a way that no hug,
No heart-to-heart,
No reassuring words ever could.
That should've scared me, I suppose,
But it didn't.
I didn't even flinch.

Stop.
Stop interfering.
Stop trying to solve a non-existent problem.
Stop making my life out to be worse
So that yours can seem better.
Yes, I am a **** up,
But so are you.
We are both damaged.
We are both in need of repair.
But until you start to fix yourself,
Stop trying to fix me.

Lately,
You are the only reason I have
To even try
To stay alive.

Because lately,
I haven't been doing so well.

My mind
Is playing games with me,
And I don't know the rules,
Nevermind how to win.

You may not know
How these games work,
But you certainly make playing
A little bit easier.

The day you left, I broke into a million tiny pieces.
I had to put myself back together with a bottle of Elmer’s glue
And a roll of scotch tape.
Some of the pieces were put back in the wrong place,
While others were lost among the wreckage,
Either never to be seen again
Or still waiting to be found.
The tape sometimes loses its stick,
And the glue doesn’t always hold,
So repairs are necessary.
Crafts have never been my forte, but I’m getting there.
You see, with each repair, the pieces fit better,
And I stand a little taller
And a little less broken.

So you need my help, huh?
Well, I'm sorry, my dear,
But I fear
I won't be of any assistance.
Do you remember when I cried in the middle of class
And you told me that he was "just a boyfriend"?
Remember when you made fun of my silence,
Even though you knew how broken I was?
Remember when I fell apart
And you impatiently waited
For me to put the pieces back together?
You may have forgotten,
But the memory's fresh in my mind.
You see, I've tried to let go,
But it appears that I'm stuck.
I'm sorry, my dear,
You're out of luck.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.

There is nothing romantic
or poetic
about it.
What you're doing
is messed up.
And I'm tired of
defending you.
You've made an art of
playing the victim.
But I'm done playing
along.

There is beauty in breaking down
and putting yourself back together,
but picking up the pieces is hard
when you've misplaced so many of them.
The thing about heartbreak is that
it's not a one time thing.
No, it can happen over and over again,
each time being more painful than the last.
It's hard to find the silver lining
when disappointment is your oldest friend.
No, I can't find the silver lining
because there are too many lines on my wrists,
and I have fallen apart and put myself back together
s o  m a n y  t i m e s
that it's not even beautiful or poetic or courageous.
It's just sad.
I find too much comfort in voices that aren't my own
and in arms that aren't mine.
I'd sleep in a stranger's bed if it meant
I didn't have to sleep alone,
and even with my head on your chest,
listening to your sleepy heartbeat, I still feel lonely.
Yes, I know how to pick up the pieces,
but my heart is made of glass
and my hands are covered in scrapes.
Nothing worth having ever comes easy,
but I'm so **** tired, and my hands are sore,
and I've picked up the pieces
s o  m a n y  t i m e s
that I don't think I can do it again.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

People don't drop out of school and work
Full time in food service because they're happy.
At least the tips are good.
I made over $70 this week.
My parent's tips are pretty solid as well,
But lord knows I don't listen to those.

It's funny, you know?
It's really **** funny.
Even when I thought there was no light
At the end of the tunnel,
I could see a faint glimmer of hope,
Of relief, of it will be okay... someday.

But now, oh,
Now I'm too afraid too open my eyes.
Even if that faint glimmer of hope is there,
I can't see it.
Honestly, people don't drop out of school and work
Full time in food service because they're happy.

You asked me once how to define happiness.
I didn’t have an answer;
I still don’t.
All I know is you’re the closest thing
I’ve ever had to it.

I try not to think about the future
Because, to be honest, it terrifies me.
It’s scary to think that
In a few short months,
You’ll just be a memory.
It’s even scarier to think that
In a few short years,
I might forget you entirely.
It’s probably the scariest to think that
All of the crap we’ve been through,
Good
Or bad
Or somewhere in between,
Will soon amount to nothing,
Even though to me, it meant everything.