I didn't like you.

Outwardly, your simplistic prettiness reminded me of a little girl, yet your first impression struck me as overly bold. Your words, an uncouth version of your mind's truth unnerved me. You had something against me. No acknowledgment, no eye-contact meeting mine. You moved with a poise-

which pranced over my cowered stance. I tried to get myself remotely close to contending, holding my own, sharing your space. I spoke gallantly (more over-arrogantly than anything else). I failed, a tactless fool who didn't know her place. My presence did not affect you.

So I fell back, held back, swallowed my words whole. They continually asked me what was wrong, if I was okay, if something had happened to me. I gave them nothing, hoping that you'd read me, that you'd know that my silence was in protest of you being


you.


You didn't, but this would change. Life happens, time passes, one small moment can turn the story I say. You yourself told us your story. And in my mind, everything made sense, words fell into place, you spoke with a timeless grace-

yet you concluded soliciting approval, asking if you were okay. "But you're perfect!! I thought you knew?" You didn't. Then it hit me. Me, you,

we're all the same.


Enviously vindictive, Hopefully smart, Beautifully bold, Insanely insecure.

Human.