She was so much more.

It was dark,raining and cold. She felt it with everything she touched and saw. It felt empty,the world,her world. She had just found out the boy she liked and was obsessed with had made a whole fuss about her forcing herself on him in the boy's gc and she was being made fun of. Oh,how horrified and embarrassed she felt. She was angry. So angry, whatever sadness she felt was not at the top of her feelings. She wanted to inflict pains on someone,on something but worst of all,she sort to inflict pain on herself. So she took it all in, she hated the fact tears dropped from her eyes. She was crying and nothing she was doing was stopping it.

She just wanted to feel something more. Something other than the constant pressure of being the best. More than the second hand care her parents gave her. She wanted someone who really cared what she had to say. Who would listen and laugh at her dumb jokes. Who would tell her that it was okay and she didn't have to try too much. Someone who would tell her she was enough.

It wasn't like that. She was too naive. She thought of herself so so stupid. Oh,how she wanted to take it all back. To squander whatever lingering hope she felt that maybe that was a false account and it wasn't truly him. She was making scenarios now. Grasping on that hope that he wouldn't do that. He'd said she was her favourite person. Noone had ever told her that. She liked it. She loved him. That was what she felt. That was what she thought she felt. She was willing to give anything to remain in that illusion,to remain happy.

Her head was throbbing from how much she was crying. Quickly,she tried to clean her eyes and dap below them to reduce the swelling so that she won't be questioned about what was wrong. She wanted to say everything. The way she looked,the way she sounded,the way she walked, she thought there was something wrong with her. He had told her there was nothing wrong with her. He was so wrong.

It wasn't the tiny cuts she had made on the upper part of her arm that saddened her. It was the fact they were making her funny looking hand even funnier. But she thought they looked better this way. It was better for them to look a bit like a psychotic art than for them to look plain and ugly.

She hated her biceps and the fact they made her look manish. She didn't like when people called her a man or said she was built one. They didn't sound nice so she didn't take it as something to be proud of. So she always covered them. Was always found wearing shirts, dresses and sweaters longer than the length of her entire upper arm. But that wasn't enough. "She still had the manly structure", they said.

Waking up in the middle of the night,trying to grasp the point of why she was still living. Trying to grasp the relevance of breathing. Randomly, she'd place her pillow over a face and try to press down. It always ended with a battle between her heart and her mind, arguing what was the better way,the better option. It always ended with her struggling against the hold of her arm. There was so many reasons to end it all. She didn't like the fact she was too weak to carry it out so she tried the drug basket instead.

She wanted to be seen. Seen as so much more. And I saw her.