Ode to the girl with stretch marks. Stretch marks reminding her of scratches from demons deep within her soul that wanted to be let out, spiraling through her body like leaves in the wind. They sung a beautiful melody like Sirens seducing men into doom. They sung a beautiful melody for virgins, seducing them into doom.   Ode to the girl with heart breaks. That girl who has been hurt so crudely that she’ll never be happy. The girl who invited strangers into her soul undesirably so. The girl who dreamt of being held. The girl who put her all into a text message and got a five word response back.   Ode to the girl with too many acquaintances and not enough friends. The girl who knew no one’s name but somehow was everyone’s friend. Strangers tossing her body around like a frisbee, not even trying to catch it.   Ode to anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, mental illnesses. Having the job of making her feel worthless. Making her feel like she’s taking up space. Also, ode to psychotics, for making the girl feel every emotion and no emotion at the same time.   Ode to the girl who isn’t “good enough.” She does too much just to feel the slightest bit accomplished. She purposefully overwhelms herself to not think about who she is.  Ode to the lover.   Ode to the hater.   Ode to the lover and the hater.   Ode to the lesbian. The girl that stares at the cute new girl in her class while everyone is drooling over the cute new boy. The girl who is too nervous to ask said cute girl out on a date because she doesn’t know if she feels the same way. The girl who’s afraid of who she really is.  Ode to the “bitch” who isn’t a bitch, but is called a bitch because she doesn’t feel like shaking hands after the show; because she doesn’t want to smile and say hello in the morning; because she passes you in the hallway without a glance in your eyes. The girl who speaks her mind a little too much. The girl who doesn’t want to be tossed like a frisbee anymore. The girl who has had her last heart break.   Hate. Love. Doubt. Courage. As I look in the mirror and see all of my flaws and what they used to represent, I just laugh. I say, “Baby girl, why did you even bother?”   I bothered because I was never good enough. I bothered because he “liked someone else at school.”   That sentence plays in my head over and over again.  Not knowing, and still not knowing, what that even meant. I realized that my love for myself relied too much on the love from other people. My mind was full of photoshopped faces, full of those Tumblr goddesses taking candid pictures. I picked every little piece of my mind and shaped it into something negative, something so disgusting that even the Greek mythological gods wouldn’t be able to forgive me for my pessimistic thoughts, despite their amiss actions.  “I don’t know,” I repeat to myself, getting louder and louder.“I don’t know.”  “This is an elegy to all the things that we become before we’re done becoming [us].”- Alysia Harris - “This Woman”