Sometimes, late at night, like right now, I cry. I'm not as strong, or as tough, as everyone perceives me to be. It used to be, that whenever I cried, I would call Parker because he made me feel not so alone, and he was really good at calming me down. But I can't do that anymore, because he gave up on trying to love me. We had a friend break up, you could say. Now I cry to myself, and I console myself. And really I just want someone to be proud of my new stride in independence. I would like him to recognize that if he isn't the one who is taking care of me, no one is, and that it's just me. And I want him to be happy, and proud of me for that. I want him to understand that I am doing it on my own, and that maybe I don't need to lean on him anymore.
I'm sorry, none of this is making any sense to you, is it? I'll make sure to write a prolouge or something for the official version of this later. Drat, I've been sucked into writing this entire book in first person. Oh well. I will most likely end up selling it out of cardboard boxes on street corners anyway. You know those people? The kind that sell motivational books out of boxes? I do. I hate those people.
I hate me. But only sometimes. I hate me in the middle of the night, and when I look at the mess on my bedroom floor, and when I look at my grades, or when I see 43 unread emails. I like me when I'm alone, and I'm in the library, and it's raining. I like me when I'm curled up on the shower floor. I like me when I'm cozied up in warm sheets. And I like me when I look in the mirror and think that I look pretty.
Somedays, it is really hard to look into the mirror and make flat gray eyes, skin so pale it's bluish, messy hair, and the stare of a glassy-eyed taxidermied deer feel pretty. I've been told by many that I am attractive. They all say that I am attractive in a "different" way.
By that they mean, I WOULD be pretty, but the purple shadows forged by sleepless nights, the scars littering my ashen skin, the calluses on the rough hands of a real woman, and the almost permanent expression of numb frozen on my face get in the way. I was always one scraped knee away from being pageant queen.
The more I think about it the more I think that a glassy-eyed, prized, taxidermied, deer bust is EXACTLY what I look like.
I'm sorry, none of this is making any sense to you, is it? I'll make sure to write a prolouge or something for the official version of this later. Drat, I've been sucked into writing this entire book in first person. Oh well. I will most likely end up selling it out of cardboard boxes on street corners anyway. You know those people? The kind that sell motivational books out of boxes? I do. I hate those people.
I hate me. But only sometimes. I hate me in the middle of the night, and when I look at the mess on my bedroom floor, and when I look at my grades, or when I see 43 unread emails. I like me when I'm alone, and I'm in the library, and it's raining. I like me when I'm curled up on the shower floor. I like me when I'm cozied up in warm sheets. And I like me when I look in the mirror and think that I look pretty.
Somedays, it is really hard to look into the mirror and make flat gray eyes, skin so pale it's bluish, messy hair, and the stare of a glassy-eyed taxidermied deer feel pretty. I've been told by many that I am attractive. They all say that I am attractive in a "different" way.
By that they mean, I WOULD be pretty, but the purple shadows forged by sleepless nights, the scars littering my ashen skin, the calluses on the rough hands of a real woman, and the almost permanent expression of numb frozen on my face get in the way. I was always one scraped knee away from being pageant queen.
The more I think about it the more I think that a glassy-eyed, prized, taxidermied, deer bust is EXACTLY what I look like.
