Kyra

"I can't take it anymore!" I screamed from the top of my lungs with knowing no one was home just like always.

"No one is ever around" I say in a barely audible voice. My back hits the wall with a crack as I slide down in slow motion, almost in an animated way to the ground.

My face is no longer free to see, but darkened by my hands and blurred by my many wet tears that taste not salty but bitter with a flick of my pink tongue.

When I finally let go I cry, I cry for all the pain I held in for so long, too long. For the broken marriage that was beyond my control to save.

(Even though I know my dad's been married to my new step mom for the last four years, and convincingly telling me and the rest of us that he loves her and their son that was conceived out of wedlock, my little baby half-brother who I do love, but hate at the same time because he was one of the reasons for the demise of my parents' divorce.

Then there's my dear ol' mom who is engaged to be wed in the spring to a doctor and an asshole if I do remember correctly which I do. God I hate that man he's such an arrogant jerk my mom deserves better than a second choice like him. I just hope she's not sleeping with him, great another thought I have to live with, my mom having sex, I think I need to hang myself over a toilet now.

But besides my being gross out about my mom opening her legs for any man, I know that my parents do still love each other, I just know they do!)

When I loathe myself and my self-hatred I lock my bedroom door, and blast my stereo on high to get lost in Kurt Cobain's words as I strip my shirt and jeans off to step on the scale and watch and see all the numbers I begun to hate since I first started.

I wonder how a sixteen year old girl can hate herself so much all because of three numbers that reveal to me in my own words as 'Fat'… 'Ugly' … 'Cow' … 'Pathetic' … 'Worthless' but most importantly' Not good enough!'

"Easy" I say

Perfection=Starvation!

Perfection=throwing up!

Perfection=brainwashing!

But what=happiness? I never found that equation out yet.

I look in the mirror some more and I collapse to the floor again, the tears build up and my eye liner makes me look like the horrid mess I really am.

I Kyra Hart am a living disease!

I have my music but not much else to make that use to be sparkle in my eyes spark like the Fourth of July fireworks.

Looking fourth to the ground of the hole I built all around me my insides cringe for all I put them through with myself abuse, my abuse meaning I done it no one else not my mom, dad, brother, sister. Me, only me I'm at fault!

Now that I'm alone in my dad's house I don't have to pretend, I don't have to laugh or smile in their presence. How I hate those fake smiles I have to do when I'm around them. I hate being happy when in fact I'm miserable, miserable to the bone.

Bowing my head I say in a very weak not quite there voice "No one ever sees the one with the black hole in her stomach" then the tears fall fourth once again for all the unhappiness I feel in my heart.

Maybe one day everything will work out for everyone, but right now were all liars and hypocrites living in unhappiness.