nine years old,

crooked smile and chubby thighs;

skipped meals, destroyed soul.

a stutter and frizzy hair.

"am i sweet enough?" she asks the mirror on the wall

eleven years old,

insomnia and trembling knees;

fake smiles, minor lies.

a lack of oxygen and sobbing eyes,

the urge to point a gun at her head and pull the trigger.

"am i good enough?" she asked the mirror on the wall

thirteen years old,

blood-stained wrists and mascara running down her face,

smudged eyeliner and daddy issues.

the razor at her side,

and the urge to cut her veins open.

"am i broken enough yet?" she asked the mirror on the wall

fifteen years old,

immensely bleeding thighs and bony arms;

untouched food, blood-stained knives.

short hair and closed doors.

mommy finally gave up, so did she.

"am i good enough now?" she asked as she tightened the rope

that little girl which

society destroyed

was finally

good enough