When we were in second grade,
I remember you looking at your broad thighs and calling them chubby.
I looked at my narrow thighs and said the same.
My mother told us to stop and that we were both
beautiful.
But we both s-k-i-p-p-e-d lunch that day.

In fifth grade you told me about your newest diet but still didn't run your laps.
I looked at my thighs that didn't t/o/u/c/h and the "excess" skin gathered between my arm and body.
I ran harder and longer and ate less.
But, you still didn't approve of my body.

In sixth grade, you continued your verbal blows to me and kept making me view myself
as worthless, and fat, and ugly.
I was worthless and fat and desperate and ugly.
You turned my eyes against me so that I became your words of hatred.
Only one person still thought I was good enough after you had destroyed me.
Soon the insults became threats and I would hide behind the one boy who still thought I was beautiful
to protect me from the words that had in fact broken my bones and the fists that planned on doing the same.

In a moment of courage, I told you I was done.
I could not take it anymore.
I was suffocated by self hate.
I wrote you a note with far kinder words than you deserved.
I was sorry I said, sorry I wasn't good enough to deal with it anymore.
You decided you too were done and slit your wrist.
Your mom took you to the hospital and you still didn't miss the chance to leave me with your burdens.
5 words, I can't take it anymore.
And you're still alive and I'm still apologizing
for not being strong enough to pick up your burden
and being too weak to take the blows you redirected towards me.