You look at me through dark eyes whose shade is founded in arrogance and ignorance. Their glare is penetrating, excruciating even as you are unaware of the raking gashes they tear into the security of my psyche. I am a porcelain doll whose skin has been cracked, who is trying to fit disjointed fragments of my person back together. But as I sew the broken slivers of myself into place, your throwaway comments and haughty indifference hem themselves into the lining of my every scar, until I carry a museum of your casual cruelty behind my skin. Skin that is suddenly heavy with the weight of your scorn and your ridicule towards a part of myself I cannot control.
Your gaze transforms me from a pretty little girl into a circus freak. My full lips swell to absurdity, my slender frame becomes skeletal. You take bits and pieces of myself each day with words of acid and you peel away the layers of beauty until all that remains is a being whose spine is hunchbacked and whose eyes are listless glass orbs devoid of both life and death.
I stand before you and it is as if I’m in a funhouse, staring at a grotesquely altered version of myself that peers back at me through innocent eyes, unaware of my own unsightly deformations.
Every line I draw in the sand to divide my presence from yours is erased with a wave of your hand, where you keep matchsticks hidden behind your thumb. No matter the circumstance- no matter what form of irritation I provide- you cannot justify lighting my body on fire just to spread ashes upon a hearth I work so tirelessly to keep spotless. Regardless of the inconvenience of my presence, you cannot justify stepping over the lines I draw to keep myself safe, because you have never been violated. You have never been exposed in the way a funhouse mirror strips away everything you thought you knew about yourself… until you have been driven mad and have become an unrecognizable being powered by a panic so intense your fragile little innocence would shatter with even a taste of what you force me to feel. 
You have never had to feel this way and endure the knowledge that behind you, someone stands laughing at the ridiculous little circus clown, oblivious to the explosive excruciation behind the make-up, pink-ringed eyes, and bright red nose.
You- you are nothing more than a funhouse mirror, or a boot to break my back when I bend down to collect the part of myself you have scraped away.
And the worst of it is that you are a good person who can’t even tell that you are slowly tearing me to pieces. You are a good person who can’t stop breaking me apart because you can’t tell the difference between sewing and stich-ripping.
