Did I not fit?
The version of me you had in your head, I mean.
How is she? What’s she like?
Does she laugh at your jokes?
Is her wit as fast as lightning?
Is she confident? Does she hold your hand and kiss your lips and casually compliment you whenever she wants?
Is she the perfect mix of down-to-earth, carefree, mysterious, enigmatic and *insert other words to describe a manic pixie dream girl here*?
Is she calm, like a summer’s day?
Does she have hair that flows with the wind and follows the tracks her fingers leave when she runs her hands through it?
Does she remind you of your mother?
Can you bring her home to your mother?
More specifically,does she float like a dream?
Something that will only come to you if you’re special enough, like a dream catcher?
Because I’m here to tell you she doesn’t exist.
Like all fairy tales and nightmares and daydreams and fantasies, she is not real.
I am the girl in front of you, shattering the glass picture of the girl inside your head.
I am rough, with broken corners and jagged edges, like a mirror that’s been dropped too many times.
I am a storm. My hands tremble on the most random days and sometimes my lungs close in on themselves and I feel like I’m about to die.
Your mother will not like me. She will secretly disapprove of the tattoo on my left finger. She will spray her judgement on me like a perfume because I wear my pain like I wear the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. It is constantly there.
I will always pretend to like certain things just to impress you. Things that I love will blur with the things I pretend to love. Even I won’t be able to tell them apart.
I will call you at random times just to tell you that sometimes I feel so lonely, I get scared and wonder if anyone ever thinks of me like the stars do because no matter what, the stars are always there to shine for me.
The girl in your head is a story. A myth. A legend.
There will be whispers of her but most of them will be highly exaggerated and untrue.
I am the book that keeps on writing.
People have taken pages from me.
They’ve written on me, like you, trying to change parts of me they didn’t like.
Idealizing me because I was ‘pretty’ and ‘pretty’ girls should behave a certain way or else their looks will be ‘wasted.’
Well, I’m here to tell you I am not pretty.
‘Pretty’ and ‘hot’ and ‘gorgeous’ give you boners and make you sweaty and nervous and tongue-tied.
I am more than that.
I will make you feel and think and frustrated and crazy and everything that you would never want.
I am a storm.
I am real.