“Now, who loves me now? Nobody. Forever alone…..
I’m a cold, shivering, helpless, heart-hungry heart tossed in the snow, bruised and bloody and weeping softly to myself. All it needs is a big hug and lots of love. It’s not a greedy thing. It just has a very large heart, and it takes a lot of love to fill it. But for now, it sits in the snow, hugging itself in vain to warm its frozen body. It cannot scream; it cannot cry. So many people pass it by. And now here ends the morning ray; the night must come before the day.
Ooh! Was that a poem? A very bad poem, but it was a poem! OMG!
It cannot scream; it cannot cry
So many people pass it by
And now here ends the morning ray
The night must come before the day.”
I wrote this in seventh grade. It’s just one of the many melodramatic musings that burst forth from me. As I look through those old musings, I find myself chuckling a bit. Some of them were amusingly juvenile–all-caps, fifty exclamation points, excessive use of emojis, expansive drama, and so on. I embodied the stereotypical whiny preteen. My slightly flamboyant tone made me seem almost fake.
But I know I was not. I was only twelve. All-caps, exclamation points, and emojis were the only ways I could express myself. The fury in my soul was real–too real. It was so intense that it could have been misinterpreted as phony.
So when I start getting annoyed with my past self, I remind myself of the stage of life in which I lived. I was younger. It’s impossible to hold my 10-year-old self to a 16-year-old standard. I’ve chosen to let that girl run free.