Smoke Without Fire pt. II

6th Grade - 11 years old

July

I look at my thighs. Bigger than most girls’.

I look at my chest. Bigger than most girls’.

I look at my arms. They don’t fit my body--too small compared to the little tummy that sticks out; bigger than most girls’.

I don’t like it. My cheeks are too chubby--I look like a friggin chipmunk.

Some days I look in the mirror--not even at my body, just my face--and hate. I pick out every wrong and blemish, every piece out of place and everything that might make me look different from the other girls. Fat, ugly, annoying, stupid, normal, out of the ordinary, nothing I do will ever be special, tears roll down my face and I choke on the words I spit at my reflection.

Hate. So much hate I throw at myself and I know, I know I deserve it and I know, I know I don’t, and I know this is stupid but I can’t stop feeling it.

Some days I put on a dress and pretend to be someone I’m not. Some days I put on jeans and a rock t-shirt and pretend to be someone I’m not. I can’t just choose one, of course.

Today I put on a pair of jeans, a stupid training bra, a tank top with a shelf bra, a long sleeve shirt, and a jacket. I try as hard as I can to cover up the abnormal hair on my arms and conceal the bumps on my chest that are too big for my age. I’m not supposed to be like this, I’m wrong, no one likes me anyway.

I’m not beautiful or special or unique or creative or cool or funny or nice or smart or ambitious and I’m definitely not like them and like them in the worst ways possible. I’m not beautiful. No one said it, so how could it be true?

People only say you do.

Moms don't count.

But other people think they’re beautiful, right?