The Act and the Real Thing

this is a quick poem about something that happened today.... we were talking about suicide and such in health class and memories of last school year came back to me. i was bullied everyday and i was beat up numerous times, i was certain i was going to kill myself.
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Make it stop.
Make the memories stop!
It's torture to live with these horrid things.

The things that they said,
that they did,
ringing in my head.
Scars of beatings healed,
but still lay underneath.

The biggest scar that keeps returning
is that same painful smile.
Two knives pinning it in that position.
It's only an act.

Body shaking,
typing away.
A chest collapsed in heart break.
A face stained with tears.

Why?
Why do they hate me...
for being me?