Dec 2016
i had frizzy hair and braces and glasses but i still wanted to be liked.
i was eleven. i think i had just started middle school. my friends who just months ago were playing hopscotch during the last recess of the day had started experimenting with orange foundation and bleached strands of hair and clumpy mascara and even though i would get down on my knees every morning and beg my mama to let me wear makeup the answer was always the same,
"what are you, 35?"
i didn't tell her that just the day before the boy that was sitting in the seat in front of me on the bus put 2 pieces of scotch tape on my eyebrows because it would make me less ugly and everybody laughed so to avoid showing weakness i did too. the next morning another boy pulled my waist length hair in the hall when i was getting my books from my locker and when i turned around to see what he wanted he shoved me against it and told me that i would never be taken seriously if i didn't stop being a ***** hippie and cut my hair so that night i took a pair of scissors and chopped off a foot of the hair that had taken almost 2 years to grow. the next day i was tripped over a rock and called "osama's daughter" because i was middle eastern and the boy who did it had his friend record it on his sidekick. for the next 2 or 3 weeks i had a gnarly **** on my right knee that i tried my hardest to hide because i didn't want mood to know that his oldest kid couldn't ******* stand up for herself. the next day one of his friends broke my glasses that i couldn't see without because "they aren't making you any smarter. you're still failing all your classes, might as well be less hideous."
2 years later i received 1. then 2. then 3. then 4. then 5 anonymous messages sent to me on tumblr that listed everything that was wrong with me and why i should **** myself. i wonder if that person knows that i actually tried and i almost, almost, succeeded. i wonder if that person knows that my first boyfriend spent the entire time we were together trying to fix me.
then i grew up. and the same boys who tortured me as a child didn't hurt me anymore but instead complimented every single breath i took. and i wonder if they know that the reason why my need for male validation grew with every orbit around the sun was because of what they tattooed into that 11 year old girl's brain - "NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU. NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU," written in perfect cursive, in the brightest neon green ink that they could find.
*-z. vega
i was eleven. i think i had just started middle school. my friends who just months ago were playing hopscotch during the last recess of the day had started experimenting with orange foundation and bleached strands of hair and clumpy mascara and even though i would get down on my knees every morning and beg my mama to let me wear makeup the answer was always the same,
"what are you, 35?"
i didn't tell her that just the day before the boy that was sitting in the seat in front of me on the bus put 2 pieces of scotch tape on my eyebrows because it would make me less ugly and everybody laughed so to avoid showing weakness i did too. the next morning another boy pulled my waist length hair in the hall when i was getting my books from my locker and when i turned around to see what he wanted he shoved me against it and told me that i would never be taken seriously if i didn't stop being a ***** hippie and cut my hair so that night i took a pair of scissors and chopped off a foot of the hair that had taken almost 2 years to grow. the next day i was tripped over a rock and called "osama's daughter" because i was middle eastern and the boy who did it had his friend record it on his sidekick. for the next 2 or 3 weeks i had a gnarly **** on my right knee that i tried my hardest to hide because i didn't want mood to know that his oldest kid couldn't ******* stand up for herself. the next day one of his friends broke my glasses that i couldn't see without because "they aren't making you any smarter. you're still failing all your classes, might as well be less hideous."
2 years later i received 1. then 2. then 3. then 4. then 5 anonymous messages sent to me on tumblr that listed everything that was wrong with me and why i should **** myself. i wonder if that person knows that i actually tried and i almost, almost, succeeded. i wonder if that person knows that my first boyfriend spent the entire time we were together trying to fix me.
then i grew up. and the same boys who tortured me as a child didn't hurt me anymore but instead complimented every single breath i took. and i wonder if they know that the reason why my need for male validation grew with every orbit around the sun was because of what they tattooed into that 11 year old girl's brain - "NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU. NO ONE'S GONNA LOVE YOU," written in perfect cursive, in the brightest neon green ink that they could find.
*-z. vega
