Maybe it was just a coincidence, but I will never forget those two and a half seconds we caught each other’s glances and smiled at each other from across the table.
“I hope they ask about me & I hope you tell them you fucked up.”
I don’t like my face. I don’t like how it gets all puffy and tired-looking. I hate my thighs. And the scars on them. I hate how my arms are so short and round and stubby. I hate the way that my feet can’t even walk a mile without stumbling on themselves. Sometimes I think that my body is a fitting punishment for all the awful things I’ve done. God I hate myself.