when I was six years old and playing with a doll house and a girl asked me why the sides of my thumbs were jagged, and I told her that I dropped a knife while making toast instead of telling her how I did it every time I felt nervous (which I counted; it could range from once every seventeen seconds to only twelve times a day), I did not feel poetic.
when I was ten and my friends bailed on me to go ice skating and left me alone in the school yard and I resorted to pretending I had really bad hayfever so I could cry in my room without my mother questioning me later on that day, I did not feel poetic.
when I was twelve and I couldn’t breathe because I had no idea what I was doing with my life after leaving primary school and I thought that I had no meaning for anything, I felt like an oddball because nobody else was having an existential crisis. I felt like I should be seventy years old. I did not feel the youth in my bones. I did not feel poetic.
and even now, when I have to stop myself every so often and tell myself to breathe so I don’t work myself up in a state where I can’t breathe properly and end up entirely overwhelmed, and even now, when I stutter over the start of most of my sentences even though I feel the word I want to say clawing at my throat, I do not feel special. I do not feel cute. I do not feel poetic.
so please, tell me: why do you insist on making what has messed up most of my life into a fairytale? there never was, and never will be, anything lovely about not feeling like a human being; just bitter acceptance that will come in time, along with reassurance in that I’ll be able to live with the fact that it happened - and that things have changed - but I will still feel those things, and they will never be tied to any form of romance. don’t make this into a love story.