I'm 19 and gay.

My boyfriend cried in my arms the other night because he doesn't think he makes me happy.

He's wrong.

If he hadn't tried to find me after he broke up with his manipulative girlfriend to tell me that he'd loved me from the day we met, I wouldn't have let myself live to turn 20.

I tell people that I am proud of myself because I stopped cutting my wrists.

I don't tell them how ashamed I am that I now cut the tops of my legs, so it's easier to hide what I'm doing to myself.

Whenever I see a girl at my school with makeup on, I go to their locker and stick a note on it saying that they're beautiful without it on.

Nine out of ten times, they stuff the note in their pocket, go to the bathroom, and wash their makeup off, smiling.

It makes my day when I see them smiling at their own reflection, without the makeup on.

I am a 17 year old girl, as I walk down the street with a baby in my arm, people call me a whore and a slut.

What they don't know is the baby is my brother's who I saved from my abusive father.