My name has never defined me, so I will continue to shy away from saying. Still, feel free to ask me if you must know. I have spent 20 years of dwelling here on earth.

I like girls in dresses and boys on trains. I like people who don’t smile in pictures. I like teacups and clouds and flowers in gardens, and also where they shouldn’t be. I like balloons in many colors, and pink roses on sage stems. I like old books, sad books, and books that have horrid endings. I like tiny legs with high, fuzzy socks with big sweaters and long hair. I like silence and poetry. I like not talking to people. I like candles, and wearing socks to bed.

I hate war, and I hate violence. I hate politics and religions. I hate my body. I hate my hair, my teeth, my nose, my eyes, and my arms. I hate my legs. I hate the word “slender”. I hate how fucked up things are for my family. But most of all, I hate “hate”.

Like everyone, there is a story behind my sadness. I made a deal with the devil so I could fall in love with everything the world had to offer, and in turn I must bear a self-hatred so deep that no prayer could assuage me, as well as an empathy unsoothable by any measure. It’s my demon to fight.

I wish I could say I am happy, but I can’t.

I wish I could say the medication helps, but it doesn’t.