she cries and cries and cries
til the tears run down
til the face turns red
til the head pounds and the breathing stops
sobbing without sound
she’s not hurt, not bleeding or wounded. she doesn’t understand. she wants to talk. she wants to know she’s not alone in this. she’s not dying or starving. not being hit or raped or ridiculed. she just doesn’t know what to wear. don’t laugh. don’t you dare make fun, make light of this pain. she’s too tall, too big, no curves. taking up so much space she doesn’t deserve, doesn’t know how to earn
she isn’t pretty.
she isn’t pretty.
she isn’t pretty.
she isn’t pretty.
she isn’t pretty.
she isn’t pretty.
she knows it’s true. she knows you’re lying to make her feel better. she knows. she’s not stupid. she can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe. her eyes won’t shut. her throat closed up days ago. she wants to fall down and shake, and have others fall and shake with her. she wants to compensate for not being nice to look at. she has to be funny and smart and sexy and tough. strong, athletic, artistic, musical.
Fuck this shit.
this is too hard. it hurts too much. there has to be a better way to live. better than the constant comparison. she wants to be herself and have no one say a word, no one give her that look that says she’s on the outside. she’s lost there. it’s cold there. let her in. let her be comfortable. don’t let it be wrong. let her be right. let everything be right. just right.
she will not wipe her tears. the breathing returns, the pounding recedes, but the tears stain her face and clothes.
