Pretty

I collapsed in school today; my body was shuddering around me. I could feel each convulse like it was an earthquake, originating from my very core. My stomach ached like someone had sent a lit match down my throat, setting my stomach acid aflame. Eventually everything dulled, the pain was hidden behind a mask of black, and the shaking stopped rocking me, the unfamiliar feelings dropping me deep into an abyss. I woke up, eventually, it was bright and I had to close my eyes again, but when I opened them again I noticed I was in a hospital. There was a lady standing tall above me, her eyes kind, but shadowed with the clouds that death brings. Her smile was genuine when she welcomed me back into the “land of the living.” She explained to me that my body was shutting down on itself, and that the stomach pain was my stomach acids eroding away at the muscle. I watched her eyes change when she finished explaining how she was going to “fix me up as good as new,” they went from wise, to inquiring in a matter of a second. She asked me the one question I never have had a reason for, why? Why did I do this? Why did I take it out on myself? Why was an image of beauty so important that I thrived on it? Why did I choose to blame you? I had no answer, I had no reason, I had nothing, so I shrugged my shoulders and told her I was tired, rolling to face the wall opposite of my bright-eyed, well-meaning doctor. I listened to her sigh, and walk out before I let the tears fall, I was stupid, stupid enough to let words do more damage than sticks and stones, though to me, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will forever harm me.