Me, Unbeknownst.

I am Weak

   "Damn! You're fat,"  I was in the third grade when she held her frail fingers around my wrist and declared me fat because her petite thumb could not reach her index finger. "Emily is in love with __!"  I was in fourth grade when my 'love' for my best friend was confessed in front of the class. He never did talk to me again. "Emily is going to shoot up the school, she threatened me with a knife,"  this was announced to the art class mere months ago because I am quiet and I am different. All of the years between ranged from my weight, my lack of friends, and my intelligence.

    "You're a prude."

     Over and over I hear their words echo in my head, sending chills down my spine and causing tears to brim within my eyes.

     "You're so fat, the ground shakes when you walk and no one can ever get through the same doorway as you."

       I carved into my flesh starting in the eighth grade, beginning as small lines hidden in my palms, then eventually I began to carve into my hips, where clothes would always hide the scars I bore because of the voices that would cease to be silenced. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't romantic. It was sad.

      "You're so dumb, that's why you can't make it to the advanced class, it's only for intelligent people."

       I felt useless and horrible. I was fat and ugly.

       "You're going to die alone."

       My mind screamed at me continuously, consuming me with darkened thoughts.

       "You will never be loved."

         I was ridiculed as pictures were taken of me, drawn on and sent to friends. I was laughed at while giving a presentation on the importance of not bullying. Ironic.

     "Faggot, the only reason you've never been kissed is because you're a lesbian."

   Even though I had been struggling with my sexuality for years, it was no business of anyone else besides me. The reason I had not been kissed was nothing besides the fact that I had yet to find someone who appreciated me.   

      Over the years I have made friends that have stood by me and pushed me through. But the only way that I am truly coming to terms with myself is finally believing in myself. "You are beautiful,"  it has taken me seventeen, almost eighteen years, to understand the fact that I am beautiful. I no longer harm myself and am two years clean. I have stomach rolls- the more of me, the merrier. I have stretch marks, faded gusts of star bursts. My eyes squint closed when I smile, then again, so do a fox's. I will find someone to love me, because I am kind hearted, despite how the world sometimes feels like it is closing in on me. I am weak, but I love me.