thin lips
fat cheeks
dull eyes
blotchy skin
uninviting
grotesque
lackluster
young

ugly

and picking at the imperfections
only makes them more prominent
until they are all i can see

I feel empty.
Hollow.
Sometimes it feels like an improvement
better than the pain
it's deceiving in that way.
Because what is the point of it all
if I feel nothing?

Pain is better.
Pain is something.
Pain means I'm still living.
I want to feel.
Anything.

So I dig
deeper and deeper
but I find no secrets hidden within my flesh.
Empty.

But for a second
before the pain fades away
I can pretend.

Sometimes when I look at myself
all I can see is
ugly
worthless
****
I learned this from you.

You taught me that nothing I ever did was good enough
not for you
or anyone else
I would never be enough

Most importantly, you taught me what love is
That to love someone
I have to give away everything I am
my confidence
my body
my self-worth
until I am only an empty shell of a person
so they can hold power over me

Sometimes
when I can’t find these pieces of me
I can see your face
contorted with rage
insistent, pleading until I obey
or
smirking, condescending
I can hear your voice
you can’t wear that, you look like a ****
I’m the only one who really loves you
I did it for you, you owe me
I don’t owe you anything.

I taught myself how to love who I am
Reassembling all the pieces that you stole from me
took everything I had but
I am beautiful.
I am loveable.
I am worth something.
No one can ever change that.

The physical act of putting pen to paper
is something that I try to avoid.
Because
It makes my wrist hurt and
I collect a fine coating of graphite on my hand and
I'm bound to mess up at least once
And the eraser leaves those smudges
That make the perfectionist in me shriek with displeasure.

It's not until I force myself,
journal in hand,
To sit down and move the thoughts out of my head
That I remember why I love writing.
It takes this jumbled mess of
feelings
words
thoughts
And turns them into something.
It turns me into something.
And it's worth all the
messy hands
sore wrists
and mistakes in the world.

I remember when we were children
And they told us
You can do anything!
and
Dream big!
And the kids would speak of
astronauts
ballerinas
doctors
and for me,
writers.

I remember when they told me to follow my dreams
And the world seemed limitless
They say that coming down to "reality"
is a part of growing up
Did we grow up and out of our dreams,
or did they force their "reality" onto us?

Sometimes it feels like
I'm on vacation and soon
I'll wake up at home.

Yes, I still crave dad's
approval. Maybe I'll strip
my way through college.