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Her Life

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Our thoughts are suffocated like you’re drowning in a pool with heavy cinder blocks chained to your ankles, by societies labels and standards. 
Little girls grow up seeing magazines with glamourous models slapped on the covers in bikinis and short shorts.
Making them want to grow up looking like her, planting a seed in the dark, rich, fresh soil of her head for it to further grow and be watered with the boys, brothers and father who criticize her everyday.
Raining the words of fat, ugly and worthless onto the dirt in which the seed lies under.
As time goes on the seed creates a tree that begins to grow into a crooked tree, with twisted and barren branches of self pity and sadness.
She stands in the mirror every morning with her makeup on, her hair still warm from the curling iron and the light, sweet smell of her strawberry perfume, 
The words that limply leak from her lips are said, they say, “I was beautiful yesterday, I’m beautiful today, I will be beautiful tomorrow” until it’s time to go to school
She enters the long hallways of her pail walled high school with the washed out yellow lockers, she hears the girls gossiping by the bubbler and the boys gloating about the football game they won last night and the teachers high heels clicking down to the break room.
It’s first hour and it’s presentation day in spanish class, of course she’s the last one to go, she can tell that her classmates are bored by the drooping eyelids and dead like facial expressions.
She presents, even though nobody seems to care about what she is saying, her hands begin to sweat at the first word “Hola”.
Her legs hold her steady for a little while then they begin to sway with nervousness
The bell rings and she feels like she’s just been freed from being buried alive, the class rushes to grab their things and they push past her without  a thought or care in the world it seems.
The school day is finally over and while she is walking home she is thinking about what’s going to happen at home this time.
As soon as she gets home she runs up to her room and throws herself onto her bed, laying down she begins to cry. It feels like she’s drowning, suffocating, dying.
She hates the feeling of when her tears slowly follow the edge of her face and fall onto the pillow creating a damp spot underneath her cheek, making her her skin stick to the fabric.
She slowly opens the bottom dresser drawer to prevent it from squeaking against the wood frame, she pulls out a small bottle of alcohol and drinks it in one gulp, the burn in her throat makes her think that she can still feel something in the least. The taste of of vodka remains pungent on her now dry tongue and in the back of her thirsty throat. She fell asleep like a newborn baby in he bed full of blankets and pillows.
Whenever you would see her,  you could tell that she was crying the night before because her eyes told you what they’ve seen and how the tears cascaded down her face like niagra falls.
She runs
Towards her problems
She doesn’t want to see them
But it’s the only way to relieve them.
She cuts her wrist. Why? Because she feels better, as if when she breaks her soft skin it releases the ugly inside and punishes her for not being good enough.
She cried and because she wants to be happy without having to hide who she really is.
She wants to feel free from the heavy chains called fear and doubt.
She’s had enough of being thrown to the ground and punched while she’s down.
Finally, picking herself up
Dusting off her blue jeans and gathering the courage in her closed fist she pulls back her black and blue bruised arm and cut wrist
With every piece of courage and hope she throws her fist of bravery and feels her father's face slowly crumble underneath her and he falls to the ground with fear and shock in his eyes.
She packs her things that night and grabs the old, faded jelly jar that had all of the money she’s been saving and leaves, just like her mother did.




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