An image in glass. A shape. Not clear, not blurry. Disfigured. It has the same eyes as me, and the same blonde hair with grown out roots. It has to be me. It doesn't look like me though. It's horribly disfigured. It's bruised and scared. It's bloody and broken. Disgusting. It makes my skin crawl and goose bumps rise. It can't be me. No. Not me. I'm the "beautiful" girl. That's how most people address me. Beautiful. Curves. Clear Skin. Nice smile. Shiny hair, straight and pulled back. Dresses nice. Glasses. Bright, hazel eyes. That's me. That's their view of me. They can't see. The marks. The damage to the psyche. Years of being told you're nothing. Being beaten. Being hospitalized. Broken. Weight. Mentally and physically marked. It's not actually there, but I can see it.
YOU ARE READING
Here's to the Past
RandomThese are written works from my days in high school. Before I gave up writing. They range from short stories to poems. I found them on my old laptop and figured why not let them see the light of day. As I find more of these works, I will publish th...
