31/03/2017
Dear moon,
You just sit there, every night. I sometimes wonder if you can see me, if you look out for me, but I already know the answer to my own question.
I know you don't hate me, like a lot of people do, but you don't really know me.
You don't know that I eat way too much salt or that I'm a pro toe-gymnast or that I have a secret crush on James Franco (I watched Freaks and Geeks 65 times, whoops). You don't know that when I was eleven years old, I wanted to work in a zoo.
Or that I wanted to run away in that same year, because my parents got into a giant fight. You don't know that when I was twelve, my mother told me that my dad was a cheating liar and that I became a perfectionist, who could never be satisfied with herself. You don't know that it went so far that, by the age of fourteen, I started throwing up and self-harming.
But I hope you know I got better and I'm happier now, even though my best friend keeps hurting and insulting me. I hope you know I still haven't given up on my choices. I hope you know I've been thinking about the future and that I want to become a journalist, instead if a zoo-keeper.
But I have to dissapoint you. I still haven't fallen in love, like you told me to, many years ago, when we still spoke the same language. I'm too afraid that I'll end up like my parents, who haven't slept in the same bed since New Year. Also, the guys in my school aren't dating material, even though they've got pretty faces and cute butts.
I hope you can forgive me for this major absence in my life.
Love,
Your lonely blackbird
