In second grade,
My mom made me wear dresses everyday.
My mom would part my hair down the middle and make two long braids with colorful hair ties.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my dresses.
The boy that sat behind me would pull my braids anytime I said something smart.

In fourth grade,
I told my mom I could dress myself, but she still had to approve of every outfit.
I told my mom I was old enough to style my own hair.
I would go to school and the boys would make fun of my weight instead of my clothes.
The boy that sat behind me would sit next to me and call me names for being the stupid one in smart classes.

In seventh grade,
I told my mom that I didn't care what she thought.
I cut my long hair shoulder length.
I started wearing dark makeup.
The boys didn't make fun of my weight but they would ask me out as a joke.
The boy that sat behind me and then next to me, liked me and texted me every night saying how pretty I was.

In the ninth grade,
My mom wasn't awake to see what I wore to school.
I regretted the very day I decided to cut my hair.
The boys that called me fat; left me alone because they found someone bigger to pick on.
The boy that sat behind me asked me for a naked picture and I said no.
He called me a fat, ugly, ***** and never talked to me again.

In the tenth grade,
My mom borrowed my clothes and I borrowed hers.
My hair fell out but I wanted it to grow.
Boys no longer call me fat because they never saw me eat.
And the boy that sat behind me wanted me back.
I cried myself to sleep and hid my wrists in my sleeve.

It's funny how many things changed since the second grade.

*-c.a.

“you must know you’re beautiful”
somedays, yes. somedays, no.
the twelve year old me will haunt me most mornings,
placing nonsense like a flower wreath through my hair.
she’ll pick my stomach, stretching the skin like putty.
she’ll still her tongue out, gnawing at my bones.
i will hear the dark words, and they will stain upon my skin,
coal and smeared.
the fifteen year old me will creep in the afternoon,
smudging ink eyeliner, telling me there’s never a thing as toomuch.
she will sing into my pores, telling me i need to return to pale tiles
and empty hallways.
she will hide under my skin, waiting until the men and scary ideas return
to the base of my mouth.

my insides are pretty, beautiful (most of the time)
so give me more time, to work on the outside.
it has been long, i know.
but i need more.
more.

here i am watching myself fall
and here i am wondering why
here i am perplexed by freckles
and clementines
and friendship bracelets
and hang nails.
here i am watching rain.
letting it kiss my fingertips.
here i am wishing you were here.
wishing something changed.
here.

Whatever we do
wont change the story
whatever we choose doesn´t help the writer
we are just here
and life doesn´t care
we are born precisely to die
anything else is just a disguise
what we make of this short time
that we call life
is what matters,
even if it doesn´t last.