I decide
who I am
who I'm going to be
not you
me.
You try to fit me inside a box
you try to define me,
but you can't.
A perfect image of a perfect girl
you've shoved in my face everyday.
"You're too skinny," they said.
"Gain some weight," they said.
"Sorry for being me," I say.
I'm not just speaking for me, though.
I speak for girls all over the world.
Yes, it's gone that far, like a contagious disease,
and I am merely a mild case.
For this disease is fatal in the worst ways.
Down the pills, slice the skin, you turn gradually
cold
lonely
not wanted.
I'm not asking for pity, or sympathy.
I just thought someone should know
about the secret society of broken girls.
