sticks and stones || a slam poem

My sister gave me her headphones a few days ago and played me a slam poem that she wrote and recorded. And I was left without words.

This is Abbie. She is my beautiful sister. Our brains work like twins, we finish each others sentences and she gets me like no one else does.

A couple years ago, my sister went through a wilderness. I watched it happen. I saw how brave she was, and how she learned how to fight back-- never give in.

She's the strongest girl I know. She's my role model, this girl.

If you're like me, you've choked on the bitter, candy-coated lies the world has sold us about who we are and what we're made for. You've been told that you are how much acne is on your face and that your waistline is a number. You are not flesh and blood, you are silicone eye-candy for someone who could care less about your spirit.

What my sister wrote made my soul weep. Because we've believed lies. And, truth is?

We are beautiful.

Hello, Katie’s lovely readers! I’m Abbie/Beezee (either one. yep.) – sister, minion and partner in crime. Today I’m so stoked and grateful to my awesome big sis for having me guest post here! Like, seriously. S t o k e d. This is something that has weighed very heavy on my heart for a very long time and though I’m finally free from illness, I want to share my journey and what I have learned with you all. Because whether you want to believe it or not, you're going to just have to suck it up and deal with the truth someday – you are beautiful. Got that? You are. I don’t know how else to say it. That is… other than this poem. It’s the first slam poem/spoken word thing I’ve ever done (eek!) so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you so much for listening. <3 Also, if you’re feeling the love, hike on over to my blog and follow or drop a comment or just look at the pretty pictures and smile and X out. (;



Sometime after my fifteenth birthday, something happened to me. I changed. I started living with ghosts in my own head. Demons. There was this girl who would watch me when I woke up, when I put on my clothes, my earrings. When I washed my face and brushed my hair and she’d look at me with her critical eyes and tell me I was ugly and stupid and that she hated me. She told me she hated me. She lived in the mirror.

S T I C K S   A N D   S T O N E S


for me
it wasn’t them 
it wasn’t the sticks and stones of seventh grade
the words like knifes,
trying to get at my bones because they were just so easy to break

for me
it was me

because yes, those words from other lips can cut me
but nothing is more of a knife than my own voice coming out with the tears, saying
are ugly

I was a stupid little girl
left alone to play by herself
with knives

left alone in a room of painted faces
posters of perfection
what you’re suppose to look like

and people didn’t see the blood
because I managed to hide it
like an optical illusion, I was the only one seeing it
looking in the mirror, finding an ugly, maimed beast there with dark circles under her eyes and blood from the wounds getting all over her
I was the only one seeing it
while everyone told me hey,
you’re beautiful
eat more food

but as if my ears had developed dyslexia
the words sounded more like static on a radio
something I wanted to turn down
to turn off

I hated that word

I didn’t want to hear it
because what I saw in the mirror was anything but

because beautiful had turned into a beast itself
the mark I had to meet
the lead balls chaining me
to the scale
to the treadmill
to every low-calorie piece of crap that I could get away with calling food

as if calories
weren’t actually energy but
tiny ghosts that haunted my wardrobe and wanted to make my double zero skinnies too tight for me

I dreaded getting up in the morning
to meet the cold with my bare feet
silently secretly terrified of the glaring red numbers on the bathroom floor
but going back to that scale
like a street drug addict
shooting up the acid that was nothing more than numbers—

watching my bones slowly make their way to my skin
I just wanted
to be pretty

and it wasn’t like I didn’t want to finish my food every night
you don’t get it
I wanted to
but I couldn’t
because the slow, painful process of cutting and cutting and cutting had left me not only with tear-filled eyes and clothes that didn’t fit
and a head raging with questions,
begging a name to grab, anemic, hormonal, mental, anything
but underweight,
it left me
with a shrinking, shrunken stomach
stuffed full
of regrets

it wasn’t just the knot in my stomach knowing what would happen if I ordered a salad
being stabbed again by a knife I crafted as the words started coming out of other lips
sticks and stones
my heart in shreds
my hands in my eyes like if that would somehow stop the tears
the voices behind me spreading thick like a layer of black oil from the slick I’d trapped myself in
stabbing at me even from behind the door I’d slammed
“eating disorder”

it wasn’t so dramatic

most of the time
it was me

that stupid little girl
playing all alone with the knives
shut in a bathroom under bad lighting
staring up at the 74 pound mug shot of messy hair and dark circles
shapeless, flat, look at you

you’re so

it wasn’t what other people said
it was what I said

sticks and stones

but like anything else, help came not like a gentle nudge but a like cinderblock in the face
what the hell did you do to yourself?

as if my bones had lost their voice
and my conscience had forgotten what it felt like to speak
the screams like desperate pleas for mercy came from everywhere

like the blurry white ceiling pinned up over my tangle of tissues and fevered headache and mangled mess of a bed on the floor
like the alcohol rubbed into my bed-sore back muscles
like the bathroom mirror when I took my clothes off for the first post-fever shower only to find an escapee from a concentration camp—

what the hell did you do to yourself?

I don’t want you to know what it feels like to be curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, crying
because you’re too weak to stand up

five feet, two inches
and seventy-three pounds
of bones
with all the scars of those knives
lying fully scathed inside and out
the voices came still, with warm hands and gentle kisses, like sweet ointment on a wound, prying the knives out of my cold, bloody fists—

are beautiful”

and I could finally hear it

because if those posters and those pictures of those perfect bodies were really our textbook goal to someday reach
then they wouldn’t be shoved down our throat like anesthesia in the checkout line
if I
was supposed to have her body
then God wouldn’t have given my own

so no matter what I do
no matter what I eat
no matter how many times I look in the mirror, twisting my body this way and that as if expecting at any moment to finally find that “pretty side”
no matter how many times
I tell myself otherwise

will ever be able to replace that glaring, obvious fact
written on our hearts from our very first breath—


do you understand?

you are not the numbers on the scale
you are not the size of your pants
you are not what you say you are

how dare you give your opinion to the mirror
how dare you tell yourself you're less
how dare you diss the creator who sculpted you
that nose
those eyes
those teeth
those fingernails
that freaking awesome ass

do you think you have a say?
do you think you have a choice?
well you don't

because someone else has already put his finishing touches on you
someone else has already written your description
in sharpie across your chest
your face
your hands
your feet
someone else has already engraved it on your heart;


do you understand?

thank you so much for listening to that. like, wow. 
can I just hug you? tell me what you thought, s'il vous plait. xoxo.
Follow me.


  1. Wow. The two of you are insanely good with words.

    1. Eeee. Thank you so much, Lydia! That means the world. <3

  2. This is incredible. Props to you for being so real, so unafraid, so willing to share your story...THANK YOU. Seriously. There are so many individual places this poem resonated with me, so many lines I loved and perfect, perfect words. You have some serious talent, girl. :)

    1. Oh my goodness. *dries eyes* Thank you so much, Olivia. <3 Your a sweetheart. It totally blesses me to bless others and I'm beyond happy that you could resonate with this poem. Thank you. xo

  3. Wow. let me dry my eyes... from one writer to another, that was BEAUTIFUL. I could feel your heart and Taste your pain and FEEL your hurt. Shivers and tears. <3<3<3


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