2/10/2014

I’m a sad girl who wants a boy to fix her. I am a hand grasping out to the universe hoping someone will clasp my wrist and keep me from falling. I am two wide eyes who will believe what you tell them. I am the stones sitting dead weight in the pit of my stomach. I am the butterflies at the base of my throat, fluttering their wings, waiting to burst out of my throat. I am the boy who told me I was beautiful but it was a shallow praise—skin deep, too flimsy for me to believe for long.

I’m a sad girl who thinks it will get better when I find someone who loves me. I look everywhere for him. In the young customers I ring up, who shyly hand me their headphones and packs of pencils. I look for it in the eyes of my 40-year old manager, who likes some of the other young girls who I work with, but not me. I look for it in the music I listen to—the sad lyrics that help me wallow in my own self-hatred. I look for it in my friends—I hope they will tell me I am pretty and strong and worthy, because these are things I cannot tell myself. I have to ask, why doesn’t anyone love me? Why am I not good enough for anyone?

I’m a sad girl who smokes weed to feel a little bit better. I smoke it at night, in the confines of my room, and it is my medication. I don’t think it’s a bad thing—weed is a wonderful thing, and there’s nothing wrong with doing it often. Still, it is often the only thing I have to look forward to at the end of long, empty days of school and work.

I’m a sad girl who doesn’t stand up for myself. I tell myself I’m a feminist; I tell my friends they are better than the boys who break their hearts. But when I test it out, the taste on my tongue is a lie. Is it better to leave things alone, or tell them they hurt me? Tell them sometimes I feel broken and sometimes I blame them. I think it’s better to not tell them, because what if I’m wrong?

I’m a sad girl who gets jealous easily. The girls with the breezy smiles and loud laughs, even my own friends. They know how to approach boys, how to attract them with their loud giggles and big smiles. I’ll stand to the side. If they want the spotlight, I won’t compete with them. I know I’ll lose. I’ll let the bitterness and jealousy live inside of me, poison coursing my body, until tears wet my eyes and I can’t stand the hurt anymore.

I’m a sad girl who still, no matter what you tell me, wants someone to care about her. I’m a sad girl who feels used. It may not be true, but that hardly matters when that’s how it feels. I’m a sad girl who doesn’t understand what she did wrong, how to fix it. I’m a sad girl who’s jealous of the more beautiful, more interesting, more fun girls who the boys look to. I’m a sad girl who feels like a filler—I help the boys pick up their broken pieces, help them move on—but it’s never enough to make them stay. They think I’m a nice girl; but it doesn’t mean they treat me any better. They say they care, but I just don’t believe it. I’m a sad girl who desperately, desperately wants to believe they care, but I’m a sad girl who knows better.