Scraped Threes

One day, you’re here. Bold and unafraid and perfectly put-together. Laughing and enjoying the joy of your childhood, smiling and unknowing of the challenges. Uncaring of the small things that only served to get you down. Crying over a bruised knee. Then you’re introduced to the TV, the small black box with the pretty people, and pretty words, and pretty products. You start to smile at the compliments and not the jokes, laugh over your losses, and cry less and less. There are worse things in the world than a scraped knee. When your mom got you your first phone, you recognized the patterns, the skinny girls, and the clear skin. The expensive toys and the urge to grow up. You're smiling when your hair sits right and when your jeans aren’t too tight. Laughing at every insult, and crying yourself to sleep at night. When you buy your first car, you are more of an adult than a teen, and that scraped knee has gnawed deep. Your flesh is pock-marked with product and cream to make you look pristine. You're a size 6 but can squeeze a 5, not a 3, still not a 3. You’re hands that once built mud-pies are cold from no circulation, the blood flow ceasing so it can keep your nutrients high. “Congratulations!” The scale reads 140 but you still feel so bloated. You’re back to 13 and reading 180 and crying. Food is a luxury for those who’ve earned it. Not you, never you, you’re not enough yet. Ibuprofen and water, the occasional pepsi, will get you through the day. Just another day. When you blow out the candles at 18, you realize it's still not enough, the scale reads 118. You’re a 4, but you’re not a 3. Never a 3. Your hair is thin, lips blue, eyes black. You're 18 and worthless. No one would love someone like you, so disgusting and grotesque. Your jeans are loose, waist thin, never a 3. Your skin is clear, if not shallow and pale, hourglass and small, never a 3. 118 to 110, 110 to 98, never a 3. You’re blood is red like theirs is, never a 3. It feels the same when you cry, never a 3. And when it comes down to it, mudpies and scraped knees seemed a lot more important than your calorie count, but now, you’re finally a 3. At least someone might like you now that you’re a 3.