She looked down at her naked chest; flat. Her lips colorless, her hair limp and too short. Even if this could be fixed, she still couldn't be pretty.

She looked into the mirror, "Make me pretty," she whispered. But she could never be pretty, pretty wasn't a word that could ever be used to describe her.

She pulled out lipstick, maybe that could at least make her feel pretty. It gave her lips color and definition, but she was still not pretty. She pulled out a brush, maybe she could be pretty after her hair looked better. No, still not pretty.

She looked at her hands, nails too short, unpainted. She pulled out a bottle of nail polish, pink, the prettiest color she could think of. She unscrewed the cap painting the light color over each nail, tears burning behind her eyes.

She looked behind her, at the dress setting on her bed. Robotically she walked over to the bed and stepped into the dress, the frilly black fabric making her pale skin look as fragile as paper.

She pulled a headband into her hair, light pink, to match her nails.

Pills, setting on the table next to her bed, she reached for them, the smell of the wet polish drifting to her nose. She fidgeted as she pushed down on the child safety cap and twisted.

Little pills slid into her hand, she clenched them in her fist as her stomach twisted in anticipation.

She popped one into her mouth and then another and another, and she swallowed. She dumped the rest into her mouth as well, coughing.

She was on a roll now, the pills just kept on coming, until a nearly full bottle of prescription pills for her sister's ADHD was completely empty.

Her stomach heaved as the pills kicked in. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Maybe in heaven she could be pretty.

In a cemetery in a average town, you can find a grave.

Wyatt Poole

August 12, 2000- October 20, 2014

Beloved son and brother.