I look at myself every day in the mirror and think I'm ugly.

I wake up every morning and I think of you.

In fact I probably think of you more than I think of anything else.

I know you cannot say the same about me.

I'm just a girl you fucked once and could fuck again.

When this is all said and done you will walk away still whole.

I cannot say that God will show me the same kindness.

It's very clear that I'm just sex.
A body.
A body to use and to have.
To toss to the side like a used plaything.
Not a thing to love.
And I will always be that way.
No one will ever find attractive a broken toy.
After all we paint happy faces on our dolls,
not wretched broken hearts and distorted frowns.

People tell me to fix myself.
To make myself attractive.
Perhaps I am too lazy too.
Perhaps I don't know how.
Perhaps I can't.
But one thing I know is that I won't.
That it will not happen.
Because I need someone to fix me.
I need someone to take me on as a project.
Tell me every day that I'm the loveliest thing
even if I'm not.
Pull me into their embrace and breathe in my scent,
stroke my hair and tell me they love me.
Fall to one knee and ask for my hand.
Make love to me.
Put their hand on my rounded belly and smile up at me in awe.
Raise mini genetic distortions of us with me.
And sit by my side when they are all gone.

And after all that has happened.
I will finally have the courage to look back at him whole.
Not pieces of a jigsaw but a whole painting.
And I will owe it all to them.

But that is not what will happen.

It will go on like this.
Until he decides he doesn't need me anymore.
I will be alone again.
I will be more broken than I was before.
I will fall into a pit of darkness.
And maybe a year or two later when I'm about to be fixed...
or as fixed as I could possibly be,
I will once again fall into the same trap.

This will go on and on, I know.
Until one day I will receive an invitation.
An invitation to a day that I want to have,
but will never be for me.
I will make sure I sit in the very back.
Near the aisle so that quick escapes can be made.
He will greet me with his arm around her.
And this time I won't even have a sliver of a right to say no.

And as they're standing up there, looking into each other's eyes,
I will start to feel them.
The tears.
The tears of everything coming back up.
And when I hear the words silence will fall inside my mind,
and my heart will take control.
BUMP BA DUMP. BUMP BA DUMP.
All I can hear is the rushing of my blood,
air will fill my lungs but I will not be able to breathe.
Someone will call my name.

And of course in my idiocy I will knock that wooden chair over.
And everyone will turn to stare at me instead of the happy couple.
And I will look back in horror through tear stained eyes and I will find him.
And the look on his.
Oh the look on his face.

The look on his face would kill me.
Because there will be nothing in his eyes.

The recent To This Day campaign makes me remember.
That no matter how much I joke and fake being happy I will never be happy.
Even if in that moment that I am smiling I believe I am alright.
There is always this underlying terror and horror and despair.
The scars made from not being beautiful to my own parents.
They run deeper than any blade could ever hope to.
I feel alone in this hole. Because everyone else wasn't bullied or hides it too.
So yes it has less to do with pain.
And more to do with beauty.