I’ve grown up in a very dangerous world. No, no, don’t laugh, this is not something that should be taken lightly. Actually, my world is so dangerous I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m in some extended version of The Hunger Games or something. So, congratulations to me. I’m turning 23 in less than a week and I’m not dead yet. I must be a born survivor.
How long will I grieve on these set moments? There are the bursts of tears on random moments, but it’s gotten down to these two times a year when I grieve for real. On D-day, or Death Day as I call it, and on your birthday. You were always a year ahead of me, but I’m now older than you’ll ever be.
There are things that make my tongue curl and my eyes spin, all because I want to say them aloud so badly. Say them to you. Strings of words that form sentences that don’t have any meaning until I write them down. Write them for you. I want you to know that up until today I never thought I’d write this.
Do you love me or just the thought of me? It’s so cliché but my mind has been going over this so many times I’ve stopped counting. Which one is it? And what’s the difference other than the ability to touch me?