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Anna Mic Nov 2017
My trainer told me that for nationals I have to classify for the 63 kilos weight class.
I have to start eating really healthy so all the junk food I must pass.
All the junk food calling my name.
You know you want to eat me they proclaim.
I stare at the food wanting it like a small child wants a toy their face pressed up against the glass.
Anna Mic Oct 2017
Wind whipping my hair.
The music filling the car.
Driving down the road.
Anna Mic Oct 2017
My smile slowly fades away.
Breaking my heart slow.
You were my sun ray.
Why can’t I just go.

Your words as punches
As you smile at her.
My hurt heart lurches
I am just a blur.

Now it’s months later
But now you see me
Now I am greater
Stay away I must plea

Wow aren’t you witty
Now I am pretty?
Anna Mic Oct 2017
Welcome to the endless whole that is called my friend zone.
Once you’re in there you will never come out
Everyone always teases me about “the pit”
Watch out don’t flirt with Anna
Not that anyone would care but I have a reason.
Maybe just maybe I have been hurt to many times
That when a boy flirts with me after a week or two he gets tired of me and moves onto the next girl
Maybe after a year of wanting a guy talking to him every day he still picks someone else.
So, when finally, I am able to look in the mirror and not be degusted by what I see he just tramples on it.
It’s like he was in the mirror pointing out all my insecurities.
So once again I am back to the sad girl I was before
That after months of trying to get over something that he didn’t even know he did he notices me.
Wants to talk to me and flirt with me.
Smile at me when he sees me.
Fighting a raging battle inside of myself to not let him in
Reminding myself that my life is not a book and it will not work out.
Once they see the ugly mess inside they will run the other way so fast they will get whip lash.
So, welcome to the friend zone
Enjoy your stay.
Anna Mic Oct 2017
Wow your pretty why would you ever call yourself ugly?
Ill finally tell you what I’ve been trying to scream for years.
Was I pretty when I had ******* glasses, braces to fix my crocked teeth?
Was I pretty when you made fun of my freckles or when you said my waist was too big and my four-head looked like a five head.
Well now my glasses are contacts, my teeth are straight, my four head is contoured to make it seem small, my freckles are unseen under my make-up and my waist is tinnier from working out every single day.
Does the makeup that smudges when I cry myself to sleep because no boy will find me good enough make me pretty?
Am I pretty now because my clothes are so tight they could fit a sixth grader.
Or are my legs still too big, my waist still not skinny enough no matter how many hours I work out or how many miles I run.
“Maybe if you worked out more you would be skinnier” they said.
Wear that short dress but be careful just because you are pretty now doesn’t mean you get to be a ****.
They even make fun of my name. A name my loving mother gave me
“What kind of name is Anna it’s the most average white girl name ever”
Nothing is ever good enough something about me is always wrong.
Maybe I liked it better when I was chubbier and had glasses and braces because the worst people would have called me is ugly and fat.
So am I pretty now that I have trouble writing a poem that I can call myself pretty. Because no matter what the hurtful words you once put in my head are glued to my eyelids every time I look in the mirror. The words swirling around in the mirror as I try to achieve your version of perfection. What is wrong with my version?
So now I’m pretty but I’m broken and no boy like a broken girl. No one likes a broken girl who they have to help pick you pick up the pieces.
So, what’s the point of wearing these jeans that make it hard it to breath but I must wear them to show of my figure. My **** must be big, my ***** pushed up to my ears and my waist shoved into my pants.
But it doesn’t matter if I cry when they still call me names, ****, ***, fake, and still no matter what I do to try and meet their expectations, ugly.
At least I have make up to cover up my mascara tears.

— The End —