by Jo Jo
what are you doing here?
you won't answer.
staring at the screen like it's your only hope? i bet that you don't want to sit next to me during class.
mocking me with your narrowed eyes that analyze every movement i make.
my pencil scratches the paper, the smudges on my paper growing darker and darker.
can't you see i want to be left alone?
can't you see i hate who i am?
can't you see that you cannot rip away these masks that i wear?
can't you see that i don't like who i am?
can't you see the scars on my face every time someone mentions my name?
how stupid and cynical of me to think so.
i was born that way.
no one sits next to me during lunch.
they judge my appearance and clothes.
they never speak to me. they always speak about me.
they always laugh at me. they never laugh with me.
i examine my fingernails, stubby and short.
why do i despise myself?
it's so simple.
imagine yourself naked in front of your mother who is a painter. you're thirteen years old.
she's michelangelo, not that anyone would know.
the cold air sweeps your feet.
whips at your body like it's the rock that keeps weathering down and down.
when your father comes down, he looks at the painting and compares the two. the painting and the real you.
And do you know what he says?
What does he say?
"She's prettier in the painting than in person."
"Oh, look at her buttocks."
"They stick out in mountains."
"Oh, look at her hair."
"Is that even real?"
i hate myself.
i'm still a little fat, you can see my belly.
my thighs touch and i can barely run a mile in eleven minutes.
if you wonder what is ugly and beauty, i'm afraid that you have blurred the lines.
the next day, you decide to talk to me.
in that soft deep voice that resonates like my mother's, except it's just a schoolboy that happens to want to talk to me.