This is What You Made Me

This is me freaking out that my brunette roots are showing through the variations of blonde.

Here I am, jamming tools under my nails and pushing back my cuticles until they bleed before applying flawless polish.

Crest White Strips are my best friend, and when I have the money, InvisAlign will be a close second.

I sleep with make up on because you told me that I’m ugly without it.

I used to love my pale skin. Now I hate it because you told me it’s unattractive and that I should be tanner.

I never noticed it until you said it, but now I do see that my neck is fat. I’ll go get it fixed someday. Along with the rest of me.

I refuse to go out in public without my face, hair, and clothing styled into something you would approve of.

I need to go shopping for new clothes despite my wardrobe being full. And it’s full of nothing, nothing that I would ever want to wear but you insist upon.

I’ll “tone myself down,” my own style, my own thoughts, just for the sake of your silence, just so you’ll leave me alone.

I’d rather be deemed shallow and written off at first glance, than be thought deep only to be criticized for my ideas later.

You’ve made me terrified of being seen. Of being someone. Of having thoughts.

I’d really rather not make friends. I’d rather people not know what I’m really like.

Sensitive. Awkward.

Because that gives them an edge with which they can pare me down to my bare bones.
 
It doesn’t hurt anymore, the loneliness. I tried telling you when it did, but you never listened so I stopped bothering.

And when you do act like you care, it’s for all the wrong reasons and it makes me so angry that I could just fall to the floor and scream.

I miss who I used to be. I used to be real. I used to be empathetic. I used to love me.

But not anymore.

Call me jaded, call me dramatic, call me what you will, but…
 
You have no right to care for me.

You did this to me.