It’s true. This life is not what I want, what I need. This Is not how this should play out. I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be fun. To be bold. When did I become this hollow shell of a person? How did this happen? I could blame it on a million things, but I think it’s my fault.
All my life I have lived for others. For my family, for my friends, for men. Never for myself. It’s funny really, how I’ve changed myself to fit into different molds. Not me. I think I might know who I am, maybe?
I am wild. I am fierce. I am honest. I am kind. I can be harsh. I am loud. I have passions. I love to laugh. Writing used to be my joy, and I’m trying to find it again. I am a wolf. I am beautiful. I love to drink. I love to cook. I love company. I love to read, paint, and dance. I am clumsy. I trip over my words. I am jealous. I am anxious. I am depressed.
I am so much more than I give myself credit for.
I have a purpose. I am supposed to love without fear, without regret. I am supposed to enjoy life. I am too young to be this bitter, to be this sad.
My life is not over. It’s only just begun.