i was eight when my teacher gave away white pages and asked to describe ourselves with red and blue paints.
my wobbling fingerprints and blooming mind drew a garden of roses with no thorns and lillies with rainbows because i was so heavenly for myself back then that self hate wasn't even a mere root allowed to grow in my heaven.
i gripped the pencil between my fingers, flowing an ocean with bright colors which could describe how my skin shredded away every flaw which could try to define me as a broken piece.
my chubby cheeks glowed through my wide smiles, showing my crooked teeth as the mirror reflected only the positives i could see.
my waist tightened around by dresses and free from my judgmental thoughts trying to narrow it.
my thighs with no red lines adorning it. no effort to squeeze out the plumpness admiring it.
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i was eighteen when my therapist gave me a wall to describe myself with broken thoughts and corrupted mindset.
my fingertips started to trace the white wash as the red bile started to drip from my metal kissed wrists.
i drew a graveyard of weeds and poisoned them with my vile deeds.
i smudged an ocean of red with nothing but dead.
i suffocated its bones until it started to gasp for air.
the wall started to crumble down with the weight of loathe i had felt for years,
storing it in the red lines printed like tattoes yelling for something but help.
the bricks started to fell to the ground like the way i pushed down the ones who sent me here to get better somehow.
