When she was seven, they told her she was pretty.
She believed them.

She loved to feel the ocean’s waves against her bare skin,
To feel each grain of sand between her toes.
She loved to sip hot chocolate,
And have cookies by the fire with her Daddy.
Her mother loved to dress her up in pretty clothes.
She painted roses on the wall, and her grandma said that they were lovely.
No matter what, she never failed to smile.

When she was thirteen, they tried to tell her she was pretty.
She only half-believed them.

She lost interest in the ocean’s sweet embrace,
But still she loved the beach.
She spent less time with her daddy by the fire,
And her mom began to worry.
She wrote down lyrics in her notebook and her teachers said to pay attention.
Still, she always tried her best to smile.

When she was fifteen, everybody told her she was beautiful.
She knew that they were lying.

She had forgotten the smell of the ocean and began to dread the beach.
She cried when her daddy offered her a cookie,
And cried harder when her mom forced her to eat.
She painted no roses
And wrote down no lyrics
But she drew pictures on her wrist in blood,
And this time nobody said anything.
She no longer remembered how to smile.