My poetry

The Lying Word

TW: online grooming, s3lf h4rm, swearing, dysphoria 

How was school,

Fine.

How are your friends,

Fine.

How are you,

Fine.

The lying word,

My lying word.

That word does not define being okay,

It defines numbness and suffering,

Shoving the feelings deeper inside me.

I am not fine,

I've never been able to say that to someone,

I truly wish I could.

But the truth is,

I am afraid,

Ashamed,

It makes me feel like a burden to ask for help.

Help,

What does that word mean to me?

I don't know, I never know why I feel these things,

I don't know how to answer the questions they ask,

And I hate repeating myself.

So I use my word,

"Oh, I'm fine."

No one has ever bothered to ask,

"Are you really fine though?"

Don't let them in,

Don't show them that you aren't,

Fine.

Go eat something,

Fine,

I hide in the bathroom.

Show me your arms,

Fine,

I cut my thighs.

Be nicer to your sisters,

Fine,

I avoid them.

Try talking to people,

Fine,

I shut out the world.

If I say this word to you,

I am not doing what you ask.

"What's next," my mother asked,

"Every other week you have some disaster that we find out about," she screams.

I don't know.

I don't know what I'll do next,

So I just look up at her with tears streaming down my face,

I never cry in front of people,

Not unless someone yells at me or I can't take it anymore.

Pain makes me smile,

Not cry.

"What's your next move... death!?"

Flinch.

"I'm sorry," I whisper,

I'm sorry I'm not fine.

"No more disasters, promise?"

"Fine.."

Thirty-two days since a disaster,

Fifty-three days without cutting,

My streak,

Shattered.

One cut,

Two cut,

Three cut,

Four.

How many before the physical pain overtakes the mental agony?

I don't know.

The night of the dance,

I wore a blue sparkly dress,

My mother put make-up all over my face,

And I wore white sneakers.

For thirty minutes I stared at myself in the mirror.

It's going to be fine I told myself,

I walked downstairs and my mother gasped,

"You're such a beautiful girl."

"How can you hate your body when you're so pretty."

My little model,

You have such a perfect figure,

Never be ashamed of your body,

You are my beautiful daughter,

Hurting yourself,

Hurts me more.

I looked at the ground with tears in my eyes,

Went back upstairs and pulled myself together,

And walked outside to get into the car to drive to the dance.

"You know, they aren't even that big," my mother said out of the blue,

I uncrossed my arms from my chest and sighed,

"When you wear a sports bra they are barely noticeable,"

"That's because I don't stand up straight," I replied.

"That's silly. You need to have more confidence in yourself."

I sighed again, got out of the car, and walked into the dance,

Holding back tears,

Eyes burning and face red.

The words replayed,

Over,

And over,

In my head.

Reviewing the conversation.

The thoughts come back,

Remember what you promised Mom?

God, you're such a failure,

Look at your thighs,

Your bleeding through your dress,

How pathetic.

You are just a baby girl,

Destined to be someone's slut,

You have no friends,

So you look for attention,

And look where that got you,

Whore.

Just do everyone a favor and take a handful of Prozac,

Then everyone will have ten fewer problems.

"Damn it..."

I put my hand on my head,

Tried to block out all the noise,

So I decided to lose myself to the music,

Music.

My only savior,

The only one who makes everything truly seem,

Fine.