Stumbling through the crowded hallways
alone and unprotected from every
judgemental glare and hate-filled smirk, I know this scene all too well.

I am not important here though,
my name is not real,
it is not the one my parents gave me
before I was born.

Here, I am not a person with dignity,
I am worth less than the broken mechanical pencil missing both
an eraser and lead.

Somewhere in my head I know
this is not true, I know
that I have worth. But every day that part of my brain grows quieter.

When I go home at night and look in the mirror, I search for value and
beauty that you have told me
will never be there.

I pick apart my too- imperfect face: my too-large forehead, too-large pimples, all of it, and see nothing.
I see no value.

The two brown orbs on either side of my too-red nose are no longer my own;
They are her eyes, picking out flaws I
did not even notice before.