To whom it may concern...

Dear......

When you look at me what do you see? Am I the daughter you are glad you never had? The student you where blessed not to teach? Why do you stare at me with such disgust? The scars are deep, and to many to count. The holes in my face, with jewlery forced through, seems to turn your stomach. Is it the picturers stabed all over my body? Or is it the hate in my eyes? Do you see a rose that was unable to fully grow, or do you see a weed that is only sought after for destruction? Why stare then? If I am all that you hate, all that is filth and underneath you, then why do I catch you interest so? Why am I a group discussion? Could it be that I am not the one that is sick but that you are? I am like a giant car whreck. Those who are damaged are not the monsters, but those who seek pleasure in watching the destruction are. Or am I a dream to you? Do you look onto me and see yourself? The you behind the business suit and long meetings, the real you. The you that was touched as a neice, abondoned as a daughter, beat on as a girlfriend, went to clincs as a exspectant mother, sniffed lines as a friend, failed as a student, lied as a stranger or cut as a patient. I am no different, you and I are one and the same, I am the failure of what you have overcome.