Am I Beautiful Now?

I stand in front of this mirror,
And I can’t see what you see.
The years of mental abuse,
At the hands of my peers,
Have made me only able to see what they saw.

My mind is at war with itself.
I know I shouldn’t think this way,
But their words are always whispering,
In the back of my mind.
You now they say,
‘Keep telling yourself that and it might come true’
It works, like a double edged sword.

They always called me horrid names
For far longer then you have called me 'beautiful'
And you are seeing everything they have
Though they have seen it for years
But how can you find what they saw Beautiful,
When all they saw was far from it?

I’m confused…
What is it you see, that they don’t?
I see nothing about me that is beautiful
And it’s more then just their words that reinforce this thought
This is what I see, and it’s not beautiful, though I have tried.

There’s bones where there used to be curves.
Twisted scars from trying to make the pain go away.
Tear tracks from constant crying.
Dull eyes, that used to shine.
Emptiness where a smile used to be.
Marks from needles used so I could escape.

No matter where or how I look at this…thing…in the mirror
I can’t see what you find beautiful, what am I missing?
How can I be beautiful, when they still call me names?
Is this just a set up, another game,
That they’ve come up with to torment me?
I don’t find it funny, not in the least.
Tell me, what about me is beautiful?

It can’t be my body, even I can’t find it beautiful
It can’t be my mind, I’ve been called stupid so often.
It can’t be my personality, even I have forgotten who I used to be.
I have pictures that remind me of what I used to look like.
But they’ve been ruined as well by the words people say.
If ugly, scared, dull, and stupid, is beautiful,
Then yes, I suppose I am.
But I highly doubt that it is.

I’ve lost so much, trying to be what they wanted.
I know now that I’ll never be what they want me to be,
But I can’t help but continue to try.
Maybe they’ll find me beautiful,
When I’m no longer here.

I can’t even look at myself anymore!
Yelling, I don’t know if it’s out loud or in my head
But the questions are the same
As they get repeated.
Why can’t they accept me?
What did I do wrong?
What is beauty?
Who am I?

Falling to my knees, my hand covered in blood
A shattered mirror scattered across the floor.
Blood spattered over parts of the fragments
No matter where I look now, I see my face
Smearing my blood across the images on the floor
Cutting my fingers all to hell
Looking up to see my face un-marred by the blood on my reflection

Is that beautiful? Maybe not,
But that crimson is beautiful
I still don’t have answers to my questions.
I’ll get them soon, as I pick up the biggest shard.
Slice the point across my palm
I’ll leave them one of my questions
But I want the answer from my peers
So every wall has at the highest point I can reach
‘To those who called me names…’
And I write my question underneath, repeating it
Till I need to move to the next wall as I’ve run out of room
Every time the blood stops flowing, I make another cut

They must find my question
Some one else might need the answer
So much red surrounding me
My body’s covered in red like the walls
It’s been getting harder and harder to stand
Good thing this is the last wall
My knees hit the glass covered floor
Tearing into my skin, but I went numb a while ago

I’m so tired, I feel myself fall sideways,
My hand leaving a smeared bloody print
My question only half done
But maybe they’ll still understand
The question will surround them now
Like their hate surrounded me

Maybe it will haunt them,
Like their words haunted me
My question is simple
Though I couldn’t find the answer
My question also seems to be my last words
Maybe someone will answer it…
My eyes close, finally sweet escape
But still I'd like to know…

Am I beautiful now?