Sticks and stones don’t hurt. They can’t hurt. Can’t hurt more. They can’t hurt more than the screams. The screams I think I imagine, the pain. My reality must be skewed. I must be skewed 

I’m supposed to be okay 

It wasn’t that bad 

My emotions don’t make sense. 

I’m blasted okay 

How am I supposed to be okay? 

How am I supposed to be okay when you tell me that I am a burden? 

That it would be easier for you to put me a room with those kids who can’t speak right. 

Who can’t think right. 

Who wear Velcro shoes and ride the short bus 

Who I was told were messed up and troubled 

Who were different than us and now I’m different than us

Because it’d be easier. 

For who? 

For you? 

My life was always defined by what I did. Not the things I do. The things I did. 

When I was 4, I lied to my father about getting into hot chocolate powder. 

Liar  

When I was 5 I yelled at my sister 

disrespectful 

When I was six I screamed at my baby brother 

mean 

When I was seven I had no faith in myself 

lazy 

When I was eight I asked if I could kill myself  

skewed 

When I was nine I was told that I needed to start growing up 

childish 

When I was ten I felt that I wasn’t enough 

Suck up 

When I was eleven I woke up in a cold sweat trying not to scream 

dramatic 

When I was thirteen I wrapped a belt around my neck and cinched it tight. 

Broken  

When I was fourteen I tried. I am fourteen and I am trying 

But I am still defined by the scars on my legs. Scars that I cover.  

I tried. 

I’m tired. 

Tried has the same letters of tired. I was tired, I was exhausted 

They told me to give up. In their own ways everyday, they showed me that I wasn’t worth anything and I should just give up. 

So, I didn’t. 

I kept trying. 

I believed in me. 

But you don’t see me trying to keep my head above water 

You see me laying in bed, saying that I’ll get up. 

Saying that’ll I will go to high school but not making an effort to move 

You say recovery is a process and I can’t just snap my fingers and make it better. 

Yet, when I have a bad day I can’t lay in bed for longer than fifteen minutes. 

I can’t complain about my older sister coming in our room at 12:30 in the morning and turning on the lights, waking me up, and keeping me awake for hours, and then more hours because all I can hear is her shifting and grunting and snoring. 

I can’t be hurt when I am ignored. 

I can’t lash out. 

I can’t not be perfect 

You are seeing me not going to school. 

Not waking up. 

Not smiling. 

I see myself being hurt 

Being scared 

Wanting to die but refusing to 

But every minute I take to recover is fifteen minutes off my life 

Do you not understand? 

Not understand that I am doing all I can, and the solution is not to punish me but to tell me that it’s okay. 

Don’t tell me that I’m disrespectful 

But that I matter 

Don’t tell me that everything I do is a waste. 

What matters? 

School? 

Looks? 

Friends? 

Happiness? 

No 

No 

Yes 

Yes  

What friends? 

When was the last time I felt like my friends actually cared? 

When was the last time I felt happy?  

You tell me that it’s going to take time, but it feels like you’re giving up on me, not even a quarter way through my life. 

I’m trying. 

I’m tiring. 

And I’m sick of you acting like the scars on my legs are a mark of my own deficiencies. 

They aren’t 

They are a part of me. 

And they are beautiful 

They are a reminder that life got better. 

Because if it didn’t I wouldn’t be able to look at those scars I would be able to see that I am in pain. 

Because if it doesn’t get better, why do I try. 

They don’t make me a freak 

They make me a better person 

So shut up 

Stop telling me I should cover them, they are mine, I am not theirs. 

I am mine 

I am not yours 

I am not hers 

I am not his 

I am not something you can define by the marks on my legs

Or the color of my skin 

 Or the size of my waist 

Or the bangs I use to cover my face 

You can use makeup to hide the scars 

Paint to change my skin 

A corset to change my waist 

Cut my bangs 

But  

You  

Cannot 

Choose  

Who  

I  

Am 

I choose who i am i am me. I am beautiful

The boy who doesn’t want to be a jerk is beautiful

The girl who looks in the mirror and hates herself is beautiful

The girl who is made fun of because her body is too thin she is beautiful

The boy who feels like no one knows who he is, is beautiful

The girl who feels like the world is trying to break her is beautiful

The boy who can’t look too long in one direction cause he doesn’t want people to get the wrong idea, is beautiful

A boy who still smiles despite the pain he is in, he is beautiful

you are beautiful.

no matter the color of your skin

your gender

your size

your appearance

you matter

you are human

it doesn’t matter who tells you otherwise

i am telling you the blasted truth

so take it