suicidio

Pretty

I used to think that if I stopped eating,
I would be called pretty by all the people in the halls.
I thought my collar bone and thigh gap would make up for all the times my jokes weren't funny, and I didn't take a hint.
There's nothing pretty about the way my body grew a thick layer of hair,
In order to compensate for the lack of heat.
Nothing pretty about the years of bullying I've gone through.
Nothing pretty about the thoughts that invade my mind,
Taking all the space for good things to grow.
There's nothing beautiful about the things I say to myself.
Nothing elegant about dropping to my knees,
With nothing but a toothbrush in my hands,
Or the smell of acid in the toilet bowl,
Or my yellow stained teeth.
What's so pretty about being sick?
Some people say there's a lot of pretty things that come from this,
But it's funny.
Because I can't find one.