Fitting in never made sense. Neither did pretending to be someone I am not. But still I did it, still I tried. I wanted to make you proud; I wanted you to love me. None of it makes any sense now.

You were never worth the pain. When I needed you most, you only wanted to fuck. When I said no, you didn’t listen. You never listened. You never saw me for who I am. If ever I deviated from your vision of who you wanted me to be, you did whatever you could to make me feel utterly worthless.

I deserve better. I am not much. Short, buzzed hair, small feet and hands — but I work hard. I give my all whenever I can, try to laugh rather than cry. I love: life, truth, the world, the cosmos, words.

Words, perhaps, above all. I can write much faster than I can draw or paint. My mind is always full, but my work is exhausting, my schedule often grueling.

But I am happy. Or trying desperately to be.