When I was fifteen I had the light and innocence ripped from my eyes. Instead there were dark bags from countless sleepless nights and a glimmer of a deep-seeded sadness that never seemed to go away. I thought I would die of a broken heart. I thought I wasn’t interesting enough to be loved.
When I was sixteen I ran away from guys with warm smiles and good intentions. I found solace in older boys with tattoos and cigarettes dangling from their teeth and whiskey on their breath. I thought capturing a wild spirit would make me more interesting. It just made me start drinking more.
When I was seventeen I crashed and burned and spent nights sitting at my window, hands shaking, breath hitching, because I could never be loved. A boy who reeked of kindness and a pure heart told me I was the most interesting, complex girl he’s ever met. I laughed and said “Baby, I’m just a beautiful mess that you’ll never be able to clean up. Don’t cut your fingers on my shattered stained glass just because you want to see the whole picture.”
You’ll just hurt yourself trying to understand me