Glassy golden hazelnut brown eyes. Unruly mocha brown almond hair. Porcelain white skin. Blocthes of purple and yellow slpashing down my arms and across my abodomen. No one notices. A stack of foundation patted down below one of my eye bags. No one notices. My cheekbone throbbing in shallow pain from the fist that beated against it. A cut sliced at the corner of my mouth. A scar etched above my eyebrow.
Overweight clothing unattractively downing down my body. An old pair of ripped converse slid into my feet. My finger tips grazing along the pinks, purples, and yellows that spotted all around my body. I bite down on my bottom lip. Allowing trails of water to fall from my eyes. The bruises tingling painfully like knives pinning into me. A jab withinn every touch.
I stare back, at that girl. The girl with hair just above her breasts. Her bruised high cheekbones. Water welled up in her eyes that fell silently after every ticking second.
Her pupils dead. There was no sign of sparkling life, but instead hidden sadness. She looked wrecked. She looked terrible. Her skin covered with mishaped circles of raw color. She made no sound, yet it was no doubt she was crying. Her pink lips quivered clencthing her jaw in attempt to keep from sobbing aloud. Her petite body uncontrollably shaking in her own clothing.
The clothing she was forced to wear. The clothing that covered her like blankets. She stuffs a hand in between her lips. Her teeth biting down on her knuckles. A strand of almond brown hair falling over her eye. She hated herself.
She hated how she looked. She hated how she cried, every night. She hated that she was a repellent against people. She hated being the reject. She hated that she was quiet.She hated how she couldn't trust anyone. She hated the self inflected wounds she had to hide everyday by wearing long sleeves. She hated the bruises that splattered on her body recieved by the ones that were suppose to 'love' her. Love.
Just speaking of it. What did that even mean? Did it even truly exist? What did it feel like? Was it nice? Was it as great as she hears the girls brag about at school? Was it as good as it looked?
Like the way her neighbor got out every Sunday with his family. Circling around a table and choking on laughter. Eating together. Talking together. Smiling together. It almost seemed unreal. Was that love? Considering I've never felt that happy before, I thought it could never exist, but there it was. Right next door. The boy who always seemed happy. The boy who seemed to be enjoying life - while here I stood.
Dying in my own skin. In my home.
The corner of my lips turn up in a bitter smile. I spit a humourless laugh at myself.
"Home? You don't have a home."My voice barely above a whisper in a hiss Still staring that girl. Unlike love, I knew what a home was. It was a place of comfort. A place where you didn't have to constantly look behind your shoulder when you slept. You just did. A home wasn't a place where you wanted to scream. A place to feel pain. A place where you actually wish you were dead. You were supposed to feel happy.
Like said, the boy. The boy next door. With his lucious copper brown hair, his icy blue eyes, his light sun kissed skin, his cherry blossom pink lips, and his long cheek dimples. Though he's never talked to me. And I truly mean never. Living together for ten years and only once had he acknowledged my presence, but that was back when we were Sophmores, and I was coming home.
It was as if the memory was just yesterday. A dark blue hoodie, five times my weight, pulled over my head. My baggy jeans swaying off my hips and my hair messily flared from my face. I was a mess, like usual. Entering my house just as I do everyday. Seven o' clock, walk to school. Two thirty, walk home.
