It hurts that I still don’t have that person who loves me and all of me. I don’t entirely mean romantically, I mean platonically as well. No one is willing to wake up at midnight to answer my silly questions because they know how much of a smile it puts on my face and warmth it spreads throughout my heart. No one is willing to ask why I always fall asleep in class but yet they always gawk and stare. No one is willing to be there for me when I cry and cry yet they always cock their heads and whisper to their friends asking them what’s wrong with me. No one is there when I need them most. No one is willing to put up with the true me. The me that’s too curious and always worries and cries like a baby and that rambles about stupid stuff like how long on average does it take sunflowers to grow. I always have to change myself somehow to fit into their mold but not my own. No one ever wonders about me or asks how I’m doing. No one questions why I get nervous sometimes in the middle of class or why I walk funny. They never ask why I always cry during the beginning of April. It’s like they all assume. They make up their own story that makes sense to them but god forbid they listened to the truth. People constantly assume they know your body and your soul and your desires but the second you tell them that they’re wrong, they get defensive as if they know better. People always try to convince me I’m something I’m not like that I’m not sick or I’m not sad or I’m not imperfect. But I am sick, and I am allowed to be sad, and I am most definitely imperfect. But they don’t take the time to realize all of that. They don’t bother getting to know me or making sure I’m okay. Making sure I eat enough or making sure that I am not feeling sick. Making sure that I feel validated and worthful and loved. I do that to everyone but not a single person does that to me. I hate it.
— maybe if you asked, i would tell you