Perfect
One.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I kept telling myself as I stared at my self in the mirror as I sat on the toilet. I clenched my left hand tightly as I slowly dragged a blade into my arm. I slowly looked down as I finished off. I had carved perfect into my arm.
Why did I do that?
Simply because that’s what everyone wanted me to be; perfect like a rose that was beautifully blossomed, faster than the others, more brilliant than anything.
I quickly grabbed a wash cloth and wiped the blood away, biting my lip as it stung. I was tired of being expected to do everything right, get the best grades, date the right guys, never do anything wrong. But I wasn’t that person. I wasn’t what everyone wanted to be. I wasn’t my mother, and I would never be.
I stood up, seeing the hair on the ground that had been cut off to a pixie cut. Long, blonde locks lay beneath my feet, all around the bathroom floor. Makeup splattered the walls and covered the counter. My report card that had a C+ for math was pinned to the wall with my father’s handwriting on it that stated how disappointed he was in me, how I would never be who he wanted me to be, and how my mother would’ve been severely pissed off at me if she was still alive.
I grabbed the paper, turned it on it’s back, grabbed my stick of eyeliner that was nearly destroyed and wrote on the back.
You know what dad? Fuck you. I’m only eighteen years old. I’m nothing like my mother. I’m nothing like you want me to be. You and everyone else that expected me to be perfect killed my perfect image. You put too much stress on me. Thanks.
I wrote and pinned back on the wall. I grabbed another rag and wiped the rest of the blood off of my arm.
I still stung really bad.
I then walked out of the bathroom and went into the room. I grabbed my journal and a pencil. I opened up the book and went to the next empty page and I started to write.
REASONS NOT TO KILL MYSELF;
I wrote in big bold letters at the top of the page.
For my mother, because she doesn‘t get to anymore.
For my boyfriend, because he is already dying at the age of nineteen.
For my father, even though he doesn’t care.
For my best friend who needs me more than anything.
For my brothers, because we’ve been through more shit than anyone could imagine.
For the days that are bright and cool.
For the gentle breeze that used to flow through my long hair.
For every smile that has ever been shot my way.
For every kiss I’ve shared with a significant other.
For every pair of arms that have wrapped around me in a warm embrace.
For every sweet whispers that I’ve heard.
For myself, to prove that I am stronger than I think I am.
I then stopped writing. I smiled and closed the book and from down the hallway I heard a manly scream.
“GRACIE!” was all I heard, and it sent a chill up my spine. I knew a bitching was about to come, but honestly, I welcomed it.
I kept telling myself as I stared at my self in the mirror as I sat on the toilet. I clenched my left hand tightly as I slowly dragged a blade into my arm. I slowly looked down as I finished off. I had carved perfect into my arm.
Why did I do that?
Simply because that’s what everyone wanted me to be; perfect like a rose that was beautifully blossomed, faster than the others, more brilliant than anything.
I quickly grabbed a wash cloth and wiped the blood away, biting my lip as it stung. I was tired of being expected to do everything right, get the best grades, date the right guys, never do anything wrong. But I wasn’t that person. I wasn’t what everyone wanted to be. I wasn’t my mother, and I would never be.
I stood up, seeing the hair on the ground that had been cut off to a pixie cut. Long, blonde locks lay beneath my feet, all around the bathroom floor. Makeup splattered the walls and covered the counter. My report card that had a C+ for math was pinned to the wall with my father’s handwriting on it that stated how disappointed he was in me, how I would never be who he wanted me to be, and how my mother would’ve been severely pissed off at me if she was still alive.
I grabbed the paper, turned it on it’s back, grabbed my stick of eyeliner that was nearly destroyed and wrote on the back.
You know what dad? Fuck you. I’m only eighteen years old. I’m nothing like my mother. I’m nothing like you want me to be. You and everyone else that expected me to be perfect killed my perfect image. You put too much stress on me. Thanks.
I wrote and pinned back on the wall. I grabbed another rag and wiped the rest of the blood off of my arm.
I still stung really bad.
I then walked out of the bathroom and went into the room. I grabbed my journal and a pencil. I opened up the book and went to the next empty page and I started to write.
REASONS NOT TO KILL MYSELF;
I wrote in big bold letters at the top of the page.
For my mother, because she doesn‘t get to anymore.
For my boyfriend, because he is already dying at the age of nineteen.
For my father, even though he doesn’t care.
For my best friend who needs me more than anything.
For my brothers, because we’ve been through more shit than anyone could imagine.
For the days that are bright and cool.
For the gentle breeze that used to flow through my long hair.
For every smile that has ever been shot my way.
For every kiss I’ve shared with a significant other.
For every pair of arms that have wrapped around me in a warm embrace.
For every sweet whispers that I’ve heard.
For myself, to prove that I am stronger than I think I am.
I then stopped writing. I smiled and closed the book and from down the hallway I heard a manly scream.
“GRACIE!” was all I heard, and it sent a chill up my spine. I knew a bitching was about to come, but honestly, I welcomed it.