NUMB

sixteen

You keep scowling at me today, and you haven't said a single word but everyone else is mumbling things behind me in volume.

At fifth, when no one was looking, you dragged me into the equipment closet.

You told me I was a slut and I should just kill myself.

Why do you say that?

Will you finally like me if I do?

You then harshly lifted my shirt up to check if the bruises left that morning are bad enough to permanently tattoo my skin. You stared at me in silence, at the bruises and evidence left by their hands — and I began to wonder if it's okay to be okay about getting hurt. Because like this I can pretend you're my friend.

Maybe you care.

But the way you shoved me and the searing pain I felt as my abdomen hit the edge of the table after makes me think otherwise.

You told me I should kill myself.

Because if you don't, other people will beat you to it.