They say those with depression are the best actors.

My dark, twisted mind, filled with deep thoughts of how I will never be good enough for anyone not even myself, will never show the real world how I feel.

My smile. My coffee-stained-semi-white teeth will shine in the light, as you ask me how I am doing and I will always answer with amazing.

You look at me with your sparkling eyes and say great. Great as if you believe everything I say is true. Great as if the sun shines brightly through the dark overcast clouds into my room, onto my bed, onto my face that is as pale as the walls that enclose my cries in.

I ask you how you are, and you smile back at me and say wonderful. and I truly wonder if you are. or are you just another actor making their way to their bed where they can lay thoughtless with the hovering feeling of overwhelming dread.

Or maybe, maybe for just once you are genuine.

Some days I wish I could be invisible. I wish I could hide from the fear and insecurity I feel walking to class, or walking in the store, or even just walking to my car. I keep my head down and arms crossed. and then I get told I look like a *****, well I would rather be my ***** than your *****.

Jeans, yoga pants, leggings, shorts.

I could look like a ghost and they would still cat-call me down. The days were no matter what I wear and where I walk some guy is staring me down. looking my body up and down. taking in every inch that I worked so hard to gain. My ***** are not mountains that you can climb. My ****** is not a temple you can worship yourself in. My mouth is not your bowl for you to empty yourself into.

T-Shirts, tank tops, long-sleeves, sweaters, crop tops.

I can still hear the "hey ladies" or "you look hot" playing on repeat in the background like my speaker plays You Don't Own Me for hours on end. trying to keep the last sanity I have of myself in. I am so scared of being stared at for too long, I bury myself in baggy clothes and make sure my *** is covered. so that you cannot search my ground for a piece of missed grass to mow yourself over.

Messy buns, scarves, no mascara, no drop of foundation to touch my bad skin.

One day at work a man was shocked by my looks. He was asking for a band-aid, proceeded to look and said "Wow, you look pretty" Shocked by your words, I asked my mom, "is it my hair? Do I dress like a ****?" She said, "No honey. It's the eyes. That's a woman's secret weapon." I told her *******. When the guy was checking me out he wasn't checking my eyes. he was calculating how much of my *** could fit in his hand, while he was picturing himself in bed with me. That's no secret they can hide.

Oversized sweaters a trend, I wonder why.

In high school, we were scolded. No tank tops, no shorts that don't go past mid-thigh, no holes in your jeans, no tight dresses, no crop tops. the list of no's could go on, what is left for me to say yes. Freedom of fashion, or lack there of. Free come the tears I shed from my dressings rooms as the clothes just pile up. Why should I be punished for the so-called distraction I place in the classroom. Who gave men the right to look up and down my body like I am the wallpaper on their phone screen, when that is the real item that is serving as the distraction in the classroom.

Being a girl is more than the new makeup trend, Starbucks, and the latest Instagram picture of Kim Kardashian's ****. It's the feeling of being underpaid while feeling insecure thanks to being body shamed by every guy in the tri-state.

anxiety, depression, anorexia, bulimia. The new common trend.

My heart is as fragile
as the broken glass
that lays softly on the hardwood floor.
Do not let me fall
like a bird who can’t fly
and find myself on the hardwood floor.

How can I make myself realize
that drinking hot coffee
on a warm summer's day
is as bad of an idea
as the time I thought
you were the person
I would spend
the rest of my life with.