• They're all staring at you.

    You can feel the searing heat of their glances. The way their words dip in volume when you come by. Already? Do you smell? Can they see the sweat marks through your jacket? Reaching up to open your locker, you make a discreet check. You don't see anything abnormal. You still felt the blood rush to your cheeks. Your back aches from your submissive posture. You're cooking in that jacket, but you have to wear it. You couldn't offend anyone with your body. You hate how you can't control it and you envy them, all of them you feel staring, who take for granted the freedom of wearing whatever they wanted, being able to raise their arms high without their heart beating a hundred miles per hour. In your silent rage you miss a number in your combination, and have to restart over again. When you finally get it open, the bell has rung and you have to quickly fumble with your purse. You're just screaming awkward and you feel the shame seeping into your pores as you slide your bag onto your arm. You hurry along, hoping no one pays attention to pitiful you.

    By the time lunch rolls around, you feel a bit better. You were quickly distracted in class, trying to listen in to what your friends conversations. It made you upset that whenever you tried to say something, no one really paid attention. Not that you liked lots of attention. You just wanted to at least feel like part of the group. One of them, the 'they' that everyone takes for granted. It's nice to be acknowledged. But no matter how much it upsets you, you keep talking to them. You don't want to be less of them than you already are. You walk up to the parking lot and climb into your car. Nervously, you peer over to the cars beside you, hoping no one is watching you, making fun of you, judging you. You pull out the small sandwich you made yourself for lunch. You hate how hungry you get. You've seen them, the girls with their high metabolism and thin figures. The girls who can wear long sleeved shirts and vests and even a simple graphic t-shirt. You feel like a whale beside them. You try to lose weight, but nothing helps. You even turned to bulimia, but you were too lazy and sometimes forgot to throw up. Like you also forgot to write down your calorie intake, and forgot to exercise. Forgot to do your homework, forgot to turn off your radio in the morning, forgot your cell phone under your pillow. You stare hard into in the rear view mirror, loathing the reflection glaring back. You're a walking, talking, breathing flaw, and everyone knows it. Salt and water poured down your cheeks as you finished your lunch.

    When you return home finally, you dump your things on the couch, walk into your room, shut the door, and go online. You need to vegetate, you need to distract yourself from the imperfections of reality. Where you can pretend to be one of them. you religiously open up that social networking site everyone is on. You check your notifications; all spam, all predictable. You stare sadly into the eyes of a photo-shopped you, blurred and stamped and filtered. Your brother walks into the room and taunts you. You ignore him, and he gets mad. Before he finally storms out, he hits you hard in the shoulder. It hurts, but you know it'll go away sooner or later. Another bruise on your skin, to match the bruises on your heart. You know your brother is a bully, and when you did talk to him before, he would always curse at you and call you a b***h and a slut. Why should you have to talk to someone like that? Too bad your mother thinks he's an angel. He has his two of his own cars, but always uses yours- oh, no, the 'family car'. He is always drinking, always cursing, always being loud and obnoxious and rude. He could even talk about smoking pot in front of her and she wouldn't care a bit. When you were little you looked up to him, and he shoved you away, so now that you shove, he pushes back.

    By now you realize you are breathing too hard, and the lump is forming in your throat. You go to your bathroom and quickly pull out two bottles from the cabinet. Hydroxytryptophan; Anxiety medicine. You swallow the pill down with water and shame. You're a complete nutcase. If only everyone just knew what you've been through. You think back to your childhood, in the back of his workshop, all alone... Before you know it, you're almost growling and you hand is fiery hot from the punch you delivered to the wall beside you. "God damnit." you said aloud; You hate to lose control. You just want to be perfect like everyone else is. Nobody is like you, you're not one of them. As it sinks in, you slowly slip to the floor, crying from the physical and mental pain of it all. 'I'll never go anywhere after high school, I'm just a sick failure. I'm not worth anything.' The usual thoughts flow into your head. You reach up, looking for your extinguisher, looking for the 'In Case Of Emergency' kit you keep for times like this. You take relief in your hand and let it sink into you, let it run deep. 'Focus, you're okay.' you repeat in your head, over and over. 'Focus, you're okay. Focus, you're okay. Focus, you're okay.'

    You're lying for them.