As my pen grazes over the crumpled up paper, scribbling out hateful words and replacing them with nice ones, I realize how delusional I am.
Stupid is turned to smart.
Worthless is worthwhile
Skinny is turned to perfect
Freak is turned to friend
Servant is turned to King
Hate is turned to hope
Break is turned to bold
Hurt is turned to help
Spite is turned to special
Grave is turned to womb
The paper tears as I sink the pen into the thin fibers, crumpling it up I hurl it across the room in hopes that perhaps it will shatter and I need not remember all the things I've been called.
But of course, paper doesn't shatter.
There's no use in pretending that they didn't say those things. Like their words weren't blades that sunk into my skin and peeled away my protection to reveal the insecurities within.
Like I wasn't the shell of the person I was before they had taken even that from me.
It's useless to indulge myself in scenarios in which that went better. In which I didn't tear myself apart and build myself up as a glass statue, which with one single touch would fall and shatter into a billion pieces.
It's useless to look in the mirror and pretend that who I was before is still there.
So instead, I rip of papers and burn precious things, hoping that perhaps the momentary satisfaction will last long enough to forget everything I've been through.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
Short StoryConfusion is good for the mind. Try to figure out what each of these stories mean. Hint: they all have more than one meaning
