Hair
A small tear slides from my eye as the usual tornado of thoughts whirls through my head.
No one loves you!
You aren’t good enough!
They think you’re ugly and useless!
They don’t care about what you feel!
You try and you try but every time, they end up mad at you, hating you once again.
The tears come faster now, though I try to keep them in.
You are worthless!
You are such an idiot!
How can you live being as dumb as you are?!
I try to get up, stumbling, I catch myself. The world is shaking. I feel as if I were dying.
I have trouble seeing with the hair getting into my eyes. I walk into the kitchen, the thoughts still whirling. My sobs grow louder with every step.
I see a sharp pair of kitchen scissors laying on the counter. My mind says NO! but before I know it, my hand is reaching for them and a long piece of my chocolate-brown hair is on the floor.
I gasp. I tell myself to stop, but my hands keep moving, chopping off almost all my hair.
I stagger into the bathroom. I look into the mirror.
My breathing slows.
My heart rate dies down.
My hair.
It’s... cute.
I wipe a tear off my face.
I’m okay now. I’m okay.
It was always just hair.

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