Every morning, when I stare at my reflection in the mirror, bursting flames of self-hate start to engulf me.
"Why am I not pretty enough?
Why do I look so anoxeric?
Why don't I have curves like the other girls?
Why am I not presentable, why am I so ugly?"
These deafening questions holler at me in my head as I kept brushing my hair for the hundredth time.
I was shedding a few tears, but it felt like I was weeping an entire ocean.
The clock was ticking; the hour hand reaching seven.
I was going to be late, but who cares about being punctual when you look like a dying rat?
And as I tucked in that filmsy chunk of boring charcoal hair, I forced a smile and said:
“I guess I’ll just never be good enough”