Struggle isn’t just a noun for me. Struggle is my whole life. I was much too young to understand the first time that the world screwed me apart. A careless move and my innocence was tore into pieces. The dark shadow that broke apart the little flower inside of me never took the blame. I look back and wish that I could have understood the violation that I had been put through. Life never loved me. Sometimes I feel as if I’m in a constant competition with death. The scars in my arm and the empty pill bottles prove that death has never prevailed. Does god love little girls who aren’t pure? Maybe that is why I went hungry when I was seven. Maybe I wasn’t worth anything. Then again I don’t think I’m worth too much. Maybe that is why it happened again and god didn’t stop anyone.

There are many times where I feel that my parents resent me. At times I catch them looking at me in a disgusted matter. Maybe I was the reason their dreams failed. Maybe I will never live up to their standards. They wanted the perfect daughter. Obedience, beauty, intelligence, talent, and straight would make me the perfect doll. But I am so not those things. I have a mind and I am not willingly submissive. In fact many times I voice my feelings and receive nasty stares. My beauty was never good enough because I was never skinny enough. My mother is forty years old and weighs 115 pounds. So why can’t I be like her? Why couldn’t I be the pretty one with the millions of friends? My intelligence and talent is wasted. Lately I can’t even muster the energy to get up and do anything. I just feel like I lost my ambition or maybe I’m now a living zombie. I don’t know what I am. I feel embarrassed and ashamed to be anything but normal. It scares me to write the word gay in relation to myself. My mother said many things. Everything she ever said broke down my inner love.

Love killed me. I never had much love. When I was little my parents were always too busy fighting to notice me. They just took out their frustration on me. I remember that near their separation time, I broke a colored pencil and my father whipped me violently with the belt. At school I never had many friends. I learned to be alone and to favor the feeling. I never really learned the rules that make people successful socially. One time I felt love in my life. But it was with a girl. When my parents found out they hated me. They shut me up and hoped that I would change. So I did. I cheated so that I could have freedom. I cheated because that would earn me an escape. I sold my respect in a kiss. I lost my only stability. I have paid heavily for my mistake. I lost the respect of the only person who ever adored me. The pain began to grow and the scissor became my best friend. There was a time when my skin was fragile gossamer. From the outside my veins were outlined and my skin was paper white and would bleed with the touch of a nail. My mind became a puddle. I was incapable of thinking. I was incapable of not crying. I became an icy queen when she left me and cheated. Eventually we got back together but she never loved me the same. I had no real evidence but I felt the space and the betrayal that was happening. Sometimes I saw it in my dreams. I simply shrugged it off. At least I had someone. My mother convinced me that I had to be with a boy and I became dissatisfied with my life. I hid myself in countless books. In the books girls who were pretty enough scored the boys. But I got too lost and let her go. In the end I ended up alone. Love was never for me anyway. How can someone who has never been loved, love anyone properly? Eventually my life spiraled out of control and I became aware of everything. The betrayal was confirmed. On the inside I died. The little love that I had for myself withered. I dilapidated into the lifeless being that I am now.