We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human

Beautiful Pain

Not many people told me that I was pretty when I was younger. But all they tell me now is that I'm pretty. Even when I'm sad, they just say "wow, you're so pretty".

Was there something romantically diamond-like about my tears? Were they seeing the fountain of youth with every drop of my pitiful expression of me grieving the loss of my identity?

("She's sad," they think)
"You're a beaut," they say.
("But I'm sad," I think)
"Thanks, it's the makeup," I lie.