They kiss your arms and say you are beautiful. They trace old scars and say you are beautiful. They rub the cuts and say you are beautiful.
But I am not beautiful. This is not beautiful. This is a disaster, a walking wreck. While you all sleep sound at night we stay up, our fingers walking over our old friends and breaking skin with razor blades, unleashing memories. We are hitting our thighs with fists fueled with the words like "you woukd be prettier if..", reverberating through our skulls. We are chugging water and not eating in the hopes of obtaining a beauty that no one can or should obtain. We are purging the nourishment while you lay full, bellies satisfied.
While you had dreamless nights, we never left our night mares. The monsters from our dreams followed us into reality, but no one looks hard enough to see them but, only the already broken witness the events.
They say you are beautiful, but do they even know what they mean? What they are doing? Because this is anything but beautiful. This is a broken house of fire.