Searching.
I search myself for a reason. One good reason.
I carefully look over my hands and feet, arms and legs, fingernails, every hair on my head. I turn my head from side to side, observing my facial features. Searching for a reason. I stroke my left arm, and it calls my name. The stripes that were once deep valleys are now filled with scar tissue. Slightly raised. Slightly faded. But still there.
I think back.
When did I become so hated? Why do the people I love ALWAYS turn their backs on me? How could they have me fooled?
My eyes meet the eyes of the stranger looking back at me.
She repeats You aren’t beautiful. You’re never going to be. You’ll never amount to the people you surround yourself with. You’re fat. You disgusting pig.
Her eyes are as red as the devils skin, and her head aches.
When will I ever be good enough?
Why doesn’t anybody want me?
I search myself for a reason. Just one good reason.