She may not be the very definition of beauty but her self-restrained chaos unravels all connotations of the word. 


She’s more than a number, more than a status.

In a world of never ending can’ts, won’ts, shouldn’ts,


She broke through the cage,

constructed by others,

that surrounded her mind.

She reached a new dawning of self-acceptance.

She understood that the things that were maybe bad for her, were actually


What was keeping her sane.

A new perspective at every turn she learned more and more about herself everyday.


Her mother told her to “love herself first” to “be her own best friend.”
She never felt those words ring more true than when that blade

That cold blade

Was right against her neck

As she sat naked on the wet shower floor.








i n g


As she watched her life









down the drain

in the form

of a vicious





Never more true,

Than when she laid in her bed


For 4 and 5 days


Never more true,

Than when she found herself running to the bathroom

With every “Ding”

To avoid crying in class


Never more true,

When she felt

As if the pressure





Would most surely be the end of her existence


Those words never struck her heart more with such voracious and unwavering denotation than when she clutched her stuffed animals at 2:23am,




Why was she so worried about the future when she didn’t even want to have one?



A best friend is suppose to take care of you

Suppose to care what happens

Suppose to make it better


She never really was her own best friend

But she knew how to make it better


She learned

The overwhelming tidal waves of sadness that dragged her down below to a hellish depth of self-deprecation and loathing

Could be cured by a few slices on the skin

At least for now



She learned

That when her gut tore in every which way direction, begging for an ounce of food

If she punched her stomach

Laid quietly

And muffled her sobs

No one would be the wiser

It would stop, at least for now.



She learned

That when the alcohol set flame to her bloodstream

It felt too much like hatred


It was addictive





She learned that when she was alone

The bottle was all too friendly

She learned that the tears and unwanted thoughts come

Far too quickly



She learned

That anger is a bubbling under the skin

That can be ceased,

If you take it out on yourself



She had no idea how to stop the world

Long enough to calm the multitude of emotions

That stampeded through her mind

Giving inspiration to her





She couldn’t stop the constant aches or pounding headache

That somehow s  e  e  p  e  d  its way into her heart

Giving her a pain that was somehow unbearable



All she knows is she can’t stop the thoughts or endless nightmares,

She can’t stop the itching need to deface her own temple,

Nor can she stop the constant shaking

That seems to be silenced

By a cigarette between her fingertips


She may be a cliché stereotype

Of what girls with blogs,

And paint stained clothes,

Are expected to be;

Unhappy with themselves.




But I’m damned proud to say 

That's not the case

I'm damned proud to say

She loves herself.


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