Does it though?
Does it get better?
Who could possibly be brave enough to tell me that things will get better? That one day my lazy mismatched socks will just be a reminder of the lack of time I had that morning instead of my mismatched life and my mismatched face?
I don’t know why I can’t be happy with things most people would be happy with, like chocolate
roller coasters (what’s fun about sitting in a moving chair? I’m not going to die in a roller coaster. Even if I do, at least they’ll remember me as a horror story)
Let me feel again - let me be nervous, giddy, let me be. Let my heart beat in anticipation
not because I’m about to get caught.