That's the girl in the mirror. The girl is laughing. Taunting every misshape, scar, freckle. Every little piece of blubber hanging over, and every stretch mark lining them. Every single piece of food she's ever had just bulging out of her. And that face, that damn face. Little mutt blood mix, who could tell definitively what ethnicity she was? Almond eyes, triangle nose, caramel skin. So many things wrong. So much laughter. So much taunting.
Now she's daunted. She doesn't want to walk out the door. She puts on her robe and grips the dresser like it's the only thing that's holding her to the ground. She thinks about what she keeps in the top left drawer. She needed something quick to hold her, but maybe that wasn't it.
Her father would think it cowardly and pathetic for her to do it. But her father would also be taunting her and not just for her looks.
So she left the knife where it should stay. But her heart was still aching. She races down the stairs and slams the bathroom door, locking it. Throws herself in front of the toilet and kneels. Doesn't even bother pushing her hair back. It just needs to all come out of her.
All the mistakes, the things that were wrong with her, inside and out. Every time she let herself be talked down to. Every time she was cheated, every time she cheated someone. Every day she watched her brother slip further and further into melancholic stasis. Every time her father poured a drink.
Every time he told her she wasn't good enough. Not smart enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not understanding or quick. Not a good daughter. Not good enough to live with him. Every time a boy reinforced what her father did and said. Every time she was left, lied to, wronged, forced.
She wants to puke how much of a turd she was out of her. She knows she is no good for the world.
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