When I was younger,

I reached for the sky.

I convinced myself I could touch the clouds,

Could sing with the stars.

I reached higher and higher,

Truly thinking that if I pushed myself a little farther,

Stretched my arms a little further,

I could go anywhere,

I could be anything.

Skinny,

Smart,

Even happy.

I wish I could tell her now.

I wish I could show her what all that reaching did.

I stretched myself so thin,

Scattered pieces of myself everywhere.

I died for those clouds,

That happy ending.

“You’re skinny,” I’d tell her.

“A lot of your shorts don’t really fit right.

You eat half a meal a day and it’s not even hard to skip the rest.

What’s difficult is remembering to eat;

You forget a lot.

You’re a little distracted by,

You know,

Not thinking about killing yourself.

Are you happy?”

I’d tell her, “You’re smart.

You get all As,

Even in the math class that’s three grades above your age.

You have scars on your legs from that class.

The pressure,

The feeling you’re letting yourself and others down.

You’ve got a lot of scars, actually, from all different things.

But on paper,

You’re brilliant.

You got into a top school,

A school you might not survive four years of.

But if you don’t,

You’ll die as a girl with a promising future.

Are you happy?”

I want to ask her if she’s proud.

We did everything she wanted,

At the cost of everything we needed.

Is she happy?

Because I’m not.

All that self-doubt,

All that second guessing.

She taught me I was always wrong.

She taught me to hold my tongue,

To break myself for the sake of others.

She tried to create a person who could handle anything,

A person who could thrive anywhere.

She tried to prepare me for any situation.

She really tried,

And I know she had the best intentions.

I don’t blame her for who I’ve become.

I just wish I could say I’m sorry.