content warning: discussion of diet culture/toxic beauty standards, mention of past suicidal ideation
when i was a kid, i wanted nothing more than letter grades, and a boyfriend–like in the movies. not because i liked him, not really—i guess it just sounded fun. but more than anything, i think i just wanted someone to be on my side for once. to call me late at night, and take me away from my mind, for a little while at least.
i wanted to fit in. wanted the warm feeling of candlewax and flame licking skin. i wanted varsity jackets, miniskirts, and endless good days. i wanted to be pretty, and skinny, and okay.
and i still do, some days. even now. so i stay up late, texting my friends about fanfiction, or feelings, or the latest calamity on the news.
so good luck trying to fit me into a box, now. now i’m fifteen and overjoyed, and confused, slowly drowning in fragmented adjectives and verbs, endless ticking worries and ukulele chords. and i don’t want to die anymore, but that doesn’t mean i don’t get so tired, all the time. of trying, and fighting. of not knowing what the hell i’m doing, and always coming up short.
but… i do have really good friends. i have stories, and flowers, and the trembling thought of a home. and tallymarks to keep me going, on the kitchen wall. i have plexiglass hands, and a heart of stone.
and of course sometimes it sucks. of course it’s not perfect. but i still think it’s pretty cool.