“It’s gonna be okay,” I whisper to myself. The words burn as they hop off my tongue, like a child’s hand from an iron. With every lie that spews from my lips, I can feel my heart crumpling and hot, salty tears streaming from my bloodshot eyes. We all know the truth: things will never be okay. 

     “Suicide isn’t worth it,” I mumble. But, if this is true, why do I have the knife all ready and practice thrusting it into the wrists of my sister’s dolls? Why can’t I just be normal and not have thoughts of crimson paint squirting from wounded skin like water from a sprinkler? I know the phrase: “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Lies. Lies. Lies. 

     “You’re beautiful,” I tell myself, chuckling at my own stupidity as I am haunted by the reflection in the mirror. My arms are veiny, my body is fat, my hair is limp, my face is too ghostly, and above all, I’m downright distorted. Everyone says that beauty is intangible, but I’ve been told that I’m a hideous monster, so I’ll just add that to the mountain of lies that swallow me whole daily.

     “You’re worth it,” I barely manage to breathe out. “You’re gonna make it.” But burdens don’t just disappear from this world; killing myself would lift one off, though, because nobody likes the ugly girl. And then, I suddenly go down, down, and down, drowning within my own mind, because I’ve just discovered that every star that shines in darkness is a lie, a lie, a lie.