Too Weak

Maybe I should be happy that all of my hard work has finally paid off. After all, anyone else would love to be valedictorian, cheerleader, voted “Most Popular”, and be a beauty pageant winner. Currently, almost every person in the school is enamored with me, the friend all, enemy of none.  The truth is, that’s not me, but they can’t know that. The person they see is what holds many of them together. They draw strength from what they see. What they don’t know might not hurt them, but it is capable of hurting me.
Sometimes, I want nothing more than to go on the loudspeaker, and scream at them all for their fakeness, but then I would be a hypocrite. When I feel that way, I want to tell them that they don’t know me. At least, not the real me. They’ve never been there for me after I endured the verbal abuse of my family, or as I watch bruises blossom across my stomach. Gosh. They don’t even know about that side of me. Shouldn’t they have realized by now that my rich uncle hates me and that my mother is indebted to him, so she has to act as his meek little servant? What would they think if they saw the pain-filled tears dripping down my face? Would I be kicked out of my group of so-called ‘friends’? If only they knew that every night- like right now- I take the razor hidden between my mattresses and hold it in my shaking hands. If only they knew that the only reason I haven’t cut the memories into my skin isn’t because I’m strong enough, but rather that my sob-wracked body is too weak to even hold the light razor, so it drops to the floor with a slight thump before I sink to my knees beside it, praying that I find the strength to finish the job.






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