You stand in front of a full length mirror,
Staring.
Thinking.
Hating.
You know you’ve gained weight.
No matter who reassures you it’s not true,
You know it is.
All you want is to be Pretty.
To be loved.
To be admired.
To be accepted.
You tried not eating,
but soon people caught on.
You were labeled.
Made fun off.
Called names.
Your Mom made you see a doctor,
tried to get you help,
but it never worked.
He couldn’t make you feel Pretty.
Wanted.
Happy.
Loved.
All of that comes from the inside,
but all the inside can see is what’s on the outside.
You sit down at dinner,
where your parents watch you cautiously.
You pick up your cold fork and stab it into your steak.
You chew the stubborn meat and swallow it down,
washing it away with the cup of orange juice that’s on your left.
Your parents watch with wary eyes,
they aren’t used to you eating.


As you put your glass down
they look away.
Happy,
To see their sixteen year old daughter become normal.
Relieved,
to see you try to live.
But you aren’t suicidal,
far from suicidal,
not even close to suicidal.
You just want to be Pretty, like the girls at school.
You want them to accept you.
Like you.
Invite you.
Want you.
You finish every bite of your dinner,
your parents watch as you rise from your seat.
They see you put your empty plate in the sink,
they think you’re okay,
Alright.
Normal.

But as you walk up the stairs,
you know you’re not.
You won’t be okay until you get rid of your dinner.
You won’t be alright until you lose weight.
You won’t be normal until you’re accepted.
You shut the bathroom door,
and lock it behind you.
You turn on the shower,
to cover up the noise.
You take a deep breath,
and lean over the toilet,
You stick your fingers down your throat,
and you throw up your dinner.

At that moment,
you know,
you’re one step closer,
to being Pretty.