The girl who sits behind you in science.

The one who lives in sweatshirts three sizes too big.

The one with the porcelain skin and muted voice.

The one who wishes to look like a twig.

You may not know it, but.

She places a flat blade on the bare space on her wrist. She stares into the bathroom mirror, observes the body she hides every day, and wonders why.

Why she let herself get that big. Why starving herself isn’t working. Why she isn’t beautiful.

She glides the razor across her porcelain skin, sinking, cutting, deeper and deeper. She erupts into a cry as the scarlet substance runs like a river down her forearm.

She’s dying inside.

But then again,

She’s just another person who sits behind you in science.

The boy who sits in front of you in history.

The one who wishes to play college football.

The one with the dreamy smile and respectful manners.

The one who is known by all.

You may not know it, but.

He applies makeup to the newfound bruises that litter his body. He stares into the bathroom mirror, observes the secret marks decorating his body, and wonders why.

Why his dad doesn’t love him. Why he can’t make him proud. Why anything he does is never good enough?

He plasters on a smile, masking the pain that just keeps growing and growing. He continues to treat others the way he wants to be treats, with love and respect.

He’s dying inside.

But then again,

He’s just another person who sits in front of you in history.