Every day I look in the oblivion to see the black, thick smog cover my branches. I want to scream and shout and cry but not a peep comes out of my dark wood. I see them walk by on there phones, consumed in the everyday necessities of life. If only they would look up. If only they would see that I'm suffering. That soon, I won't be in this life. I would be another mere statistic of the ever decreasing population of nature. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry that they can't take a minute out of the 24 hour day to look at the beauty of life. Instead, they are consumed in their selfishness of individuality. Soon my leaves will start to fade and turn into dust. My wood will start to pill and peel off my spin. Lastly my roots will shrink into a fraction of what they once were. Will they even notice? Notice that I won't be there to provide shade on those hot summer days? That I won't be there to block the freezing breeze in the crisp winter? Notice that I won't provide a cool, refreshing breeze and those excruciating hot days? Will they? No they won't. Because they are so consumed in the ever expanding wastefulness of the human population. You perceive me as a trashcan to throw your flaming hot cheetos onto my roots, yet you use me as an umbrella and hold small pincis under my gushing leaves on the cool days. What more do you want? I give and give and give but yet all you do is take? You take my self worth layer by layer until there is nothing left except the tree that use to be. You make me feel sorry for myself. Sorry for growing in your city, sorry for being an inconvenience, sorry for being in your way. We'll see whose apologizing when your gasping for air because you've managed to exterminate every last beauty thing about life. Is this the price your willing to pay? Will you apologize then? I wondered if this was worth it all. Worth it to provide comfort to the ones who abuse me. As a child I didn't feel this way. My family was right by my side holding up their branches in unicen. But we didn't know we were waiting in line, slowly to die, until it's our turn.

The act of eating is defined as "the process of taking food through the mouth." However this is not true. Eating makes you go against everything you are told. To be told that the only way to succeed in life is to be thin and pretty. However to come to the realization that the expectations are a mere fantasy. Now you're drinking Ensure because you're too scared to even put a piece of celery in my mouth. The love of going out to eat with your friends is gone and now you look for ways to hide what little food you've ordered in your napkin without your friends suspecting or conspiring. Or going to the bathroom at least two times to throw up what little food you've eaten. Now you can't even eat a banana without thinking about how many calories it contains because of the engrained counter in your haunting mind. "Eat an apple, no it's 150 calories." "Eat a banana, no it's 90 calories." Food will become your enemy forever haunting you in your sleep. And make you stumble into the oblivion.

To the boy on the bus who slide his hand up my thigh as if it was his own. To the guy forcing his hand down my pants in the practice room. To the guy who whistled, hooted, and clapped from across the street. And to the guy through the phone that manipulated me. You all hurt me. Brought me to tears. Crying not about you, but about me. You convinced me that everything you did to me was my fault because I was a sad little girl who couldn’t fight back. Told me that the only way to be pretty, was to be skinny. And the only way to get rid of food was by sticking my head in a toilet bowl. You had no ******* idea how much you hurt me. Whether it was physical or emotional, you still damaged me. What you did wakes me like an alarm clock before sunrise and wakes me up in the middle of the night dripping of sweat and tears. But the thing is, you didn’t break me. Because I’m still here. I’m still standing on my own two feet without your help. And I’m sorry. I’m not sorry for myself, I’m sorry for you. I’m sorry that no one ever taught you right from wrong. That you’re so ****** up that you have to tear others down piece by piece until there is nothing left but a crying girl shaking in the corner wanting to die. I have forgiven myself but I will never forgive you, and that’s okay. Because I still get out of bed in the morning. Whether it’s thinking about you, or the day that I have planned, I still get out of bed. I will always be twice the person you are and nothing less. You will always be below me and never above. You might see this, or you might not, but if you do, know that I am a survivor.