"Help!" An agonizing cry rips out from the wall next to me. "Please, please help me!"  
  
Why won't the colorful girl in the mirror stop screaming?
She's been begging for me to break the glass for years.
She should know that no one is listening by now.
"Let me out!" she cries again, face streaked with tears.
She pounds on the glass helplessly, her bangled wrist shaking noisily.  
  
"No," I say calmly, covering the mirror with a blanket.   
  
I paint a smile onto the quilt so I can pretend that she is still happy.
Imagining things is much easier.
It’s much quieter without her constant moaning. How serene.  
  
I look to the ground at my spotless shoes and wonder why I keep the real me in the mirror.
She has issues that could easily be solved if I let her out...  
  
No. She cannot be let out.
The world does not need to help me...her I mean.
She is just an attention seeking hypochondriac.
There isn't really anything wrong; her family loves her, she has a good friend...  
  
But there is something wrong.
She's depressed.
Even if there isn't a good reason, it's the truth.   
  
Looking back, I can understand why she isn't happy; all she does is smile despite the comments her 'friends' make.
The shoves down the hallway.
The acidic stares of jealousy.
The sneers of hatred without an explanation.   
  
"You are so ugly."  
  
"Who picked out your clothes? Your Grandma?"  
  
"Why aren't you as pretty as your mom?"  
  
"Can't you do anything right?"  

“Your Mom’s so pretty… what happened to you?”
  
"Give me the answers, Nerd, or I'll tell the teacher you were cussing."  
  
Didn't they see the scars they left all over her body? Didn't they chip away the grin smeared on by puffy paint?  
  
Didn't they take the time to see what they were doing to me?   
  
"Be unique, that's attractive," Someone told me once.  
  
"Ugh! You're so weird! Why aren't you normal?" another spewed.  
  
That was the day I shoved the real me away, put her in a place only I could see her; the mirror.   
  
I poured out my soul, wrenched away all the hurt, and buried it alive in the silvery glass of the bathroom reflection.   
  
But nobody sees that either.   
  
They see the textbook quoted Leo, proud, confident, and kind.   
  
"Look at her! She is so ugly." Lipstick makes a good mask.  
  
"Her clothes look like something from a gypsy caravan." Short skirts and tank tops were cute.  
  
"She has moral values, like from the 1800s or something." Not anymore.  
  
I wonder why I keep the girl I love, the one that represents the true me, stuck behind a pane of glass.
But if I told you the truth, you wouldn't be able to dig deep enough to understand.