Beautiful

Every day. Every day when she wakes up; when she pulls herself from her warm bed and drags a hand through her sleep-mussed hair; when she stumbles to the bathroom and blinks at the harsh fluorescent lighting; when she holds herself up by the edge of the sink and glares at her exhausted reflection; every day, she tells herself, “you are beautiful.”

Every day when she pours too much cereal in her mother’s eyes; when she ignores the judgmental glances of her father over his ever-present newspaper; when she leaves the house twenty minutes early to escape the condescension; every day, she tells herself, “you are loved.”

Every day when she walks to school, alone but for the wind and her worries; when she trudges up the steps under the weight of the homework she wishes she’d had time to complete; when she sits in her desk carved with words she wishes she didn’t know the meaning of; every day, she tells herself, “you have potential.”

Every day when the spitballs fly and the pencils prod her as she passes; when she drops her books and watches her papers be scrunched beneath the feet of uncaring students; when she eats her lunch in the middle of the crowd, but outside of the conversation; every day, she tells herself, “you are wanted.”

Every day she tells herself she is worth something, because no one else ever even tries.

One day, she doesn’t.

She leaves her bed and does her best to ignore the ugly face in the mirror; she eats her breakfast and can’t help but notice the glares, the unspoken criticism; she walks to school and realizes that the wind was never talking, that it had always been her own voice in her head; she sits in her desk and in the cafeteria and is washed away, faded by the temptingly meaningless words around her.

She doesn’t tell herself a thing, and neither does anyone else.

And when the news reaches them- her parents, then her teachers, then her friends who never really were; when they hear that awful word and picture the scenario and wonder how anyone could be so weak when, in reality, she had been too strong for too long; when the whisper of “suicide” echoes around the empty hallways and sounds low and loud in her abandoned bedroom; that is when others begin to speak.

Now they regurgitate phrases like parrots, repeating the useless words to themselves to assuage their pretended guilt: she was so beautiful; she was so loved; she had so much potential; she was so wanted. Now they comfort each other in the classrooms, as if they’re the victims, as if she betrayed them by escaping. Now they ignore the empty desk and walk past the empty locker and wish they could forget her empty eyes.

And she can see them, and she knows they’ll forget her soon; but in the meantime, she asks them, screams and shouts at them as they belatedly murmur these meaningless compliments that help nobody; why didn’t you tell me?

If I am so beautiful,
If I am so loved,
If I am so wanted…

Then why wasn’t I before?