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THis kinda stuff, tears, me, apart.

By , Cinci, OH
I’m one of those rare people, according to my 8th grade religion teacher.

I get good grades,
Way above average,
4.2 GPA to be exact.

I work hard,
In school,
In sports,
And in life.

I have a lot of friends,
From a lot,
Of different groups.

I play on a soccer team,
One of the best,
In the nation.

When my coach,
Introduces me,
He says,
“Best girl, best family,
May not be the best,
But she has the heart,
The raw talent,
And she works,
Hard.

I have people,
To look out for me,
Friends,
Family,
No boyfriend.

I don’t waste,
My time,
To be young,
On boys.

I have friends,
Who love me,
More than I,
Love them.

For a girl,
I have LOTS,
Of guy friends,
More than my share,
No boyfriends.

I have time,
I use it,
To my best,
Advantage.

When I get home,
From school,
I run,
Or practice,
I study,
I eat dinner.

I have beauty,
On the inside,
Not one of those,
“you’re so pretty”
People.

But so often,
I am told,
I am,
Beautiful.

It’s not,
My looks,
But my inner-
Self shining,
Through,
To my,
Outer,
Limits.

I have,
The “perfect” family,
One sister,
One mom,
One dad,
Upper-
Middle-
Class.

I have,
Basic essentials,
And wants.

Sounds,
All perfect,
Right?

Not,
at,
all.

IN fifth grade,
My best friend,
Was diagnosed,
With aneroxia nervosa.

In sixth,
Bulimia.

In seventh,
Depression.

In eighth grade,
She didn’t make,
It through,
The first week.

She Oded,
Right in,
In front,
Of my own,
Two eyes.
She was strapped,
And taken away,
In an ambulance,
Right in front,
Of my own,
Two eyes.

It tears,
Me apart.

Our relationship,
Has NEVER,
Been the,
Same.

When I was,
12,
My uncle,
Dropped dead,
In my back yard,
And my own,
Father,
Did CPR,
With his own,
Two arms,
For 15,
Minutes.

Straight.

This kind of stuff,
Tears,
Me,
Apart.





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