Worthless and Ugly

I was used to the way they made me feel:

Broken. Used. Worthless.

A piece of meat that was to their liking for the night. For their convenience.

But not you.

We were friends until that moment that you set your lips to mine.

We were friends until you decided to be like them.

To remind me of my past mistakes and let me feel as if that's all I was:

A piece of meat to be used when convenient.

Why was I not good enough?

Am I not pretty?

Am I not skinny enough?

Or is it just because she's better?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not jealous of her.

I'm angry at you.

I'm angry at me.

I'm angry that I wasn't good enough to be picked first.

I'm angry because my first kiss was stolen by yet another fling: my supposed friend.

Because though I'd never felt the touch of a man, I'd felt the effect of their words over a late night chat in which they showed me how beautiful I was.

They showed me with every bit of pleasure I helped them achieve how useful I was... until I wasn't.

That wasn't supposed to be you.

But you loved her.

You chose her, and I don't blame you.

Why choose a servant when you can have a Queen, and I understand.

I understand that she's the best you could ever have, I'm just mad.

Mad that you don't see that you stole this from me:

You stole the joy of my first kiss and the passion that I could have had.

You should have kept to yourself and strayed away because now:

Now my anxiety eats at me. It screams at me in the worst possible way: telling me things that my depression repeats.

Over and over They scream in my head.

Over and over, I lose myself to that kiss and I cry.

I cry remembering how I was only good enough as a side.

I cry remembering that I thought you were the best and now I'm still mad.

Why me? Why kiss me when you loved her?

Why taint my first kiss with your stupid doubts and guilts.

Why make me feel like less than what I am because of your boyish desires?

It hurts. I'm not going to lie and say I'm okay, because I'm not.

I'm not OK with being used. Not anymore. Not by you.

I may believe I'm not pretty.

I may believe I'm not skinny.

I may believe I'm not good enough.

But I won't let you decide what I am.

I won't let your choice affect who I am.

Because despite my insecurities and lack of morals, I'm not you.

I'm not going to look for a poor sap who needs love just to kiss him and run off with another.

And despite my anger and hatred toward you, I hate myself more.

I hate that you make me feel like they do.

I hate that when I finally hear the words 'I love you' from the lips of a man, I won't be able to believe them.

I'm angry at myself for letting you dictate the way I think of the way I look.

I'm angry that you decided I wasn't worth it.

I'm angry that now when I look at my hair, my skin, my body, I think:

She's probably better.

My black hair isn't her blonde.

My brown skin isn't her milky white.

My layers of fat and fatigue don't begin to touch her flattering figure.

I'm mad that I'm not as good as her. But I'm mad at you for making me think about it.

I'm not jealous of her.

I'm mad at you.

Because before you, I never once would have thought to compare myself with her.

I never once would have asked myself if I was good enough.

I never once would have told myself I was too ugly to be loved.

Yet here I am. Falling into old habits just for a second of a man's approval.

Telling him what he wants to hear so he'll want me.

I fall back into the need to hear just a whisper from a man saying I'm worth it.

Saying I'm beautiful.

Giving me a reason to love myself enough to get me through the night.

While you: You just made me feel worthless and ugly.