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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.