Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. I repeat to myself over and over again. Just like mama told me. To my chagrin, they're still standing above me. I'm crouched in a corner, holding my knees to my chest, trying to will them away with my mind. "Laura when are you gonna come out of your shell? You're gettin' too big for it!" One person sneers. I can't look up, can't bear to meet their eyes. Because I know if I do, they will tear me apart. If I don't look at them, they have less power over me. That's what I tell myself, at least. The bell rings, and everyone scrambles to their desks before the teacher comes in to find they've been picking on someone. But, as everyone else rushes to find their seats, I'm paralyzed. I can't seem to move. Maybe it's out of shame, maybe out of fear, but I just can't get myself up. Our teacher, Miss Tally, comes in and looks at me. "Laura what's the problem?" She asks, her eyebrows furrowed with concern. I don't have the courage to tell her what the kids have said to me. But I don't have to, because Samuel Bernsen yells out, "I think she has a stomach ache Miss Tally!" I glare in his direction, but she doesn't see it. "Would you like to go to the nurse Laura?" I nod, as tears stream down my face. She writes me a pass, and I leave the room. But I'm not going to the nurse. I walk to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. My hair is frizzy, my eyes are puffy and red, and I look like a mess. I'm wearing an Escape the Fate oversized T-shirt, and some baggy pants. It's better to wear baggy clothes so people don't see the fat. But they poke and they prod and they still know. They still know and there is nothing I can do about it. Eighth grade was supposed to be fun, and now I'm stuck in the bathroom, crying over things people say to me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. But words have hurt me. They have driven me to hurt myself in ways I would have never imagined doing only a year earlier. The slits on my wrist aren't drawn on with red pen. The lunches my mom packs me are never eaten. They will remain in the trash cans untouched. The taste of bile in my mouth, when I can't handle not eating, and so I eat as much as I can, and then punish myself by vomiting. This is not the life that I ever saw myself living. It isn't the life I saw anyone else living. I try to think what I did to deserve this. Maybe I was the one who bullied in a previous life, and this is my penance? The sounds of people laughing whenever I walk in the room will forever be in my mind. The words "FAT A**" written on my locker will always be written in my brain. And the looks people give me when I walk in a room will replay continuously in my head. I look in the mirror, at my stomach, at my thighs, at my breasts, at my chin, at my rear. I look at them until vision is blurred with tears. I pull out my black nail polish and write on the mirror, Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will always hurt more.