Negative numbers give me anxiety.

     I think you see my skin first. It looks best in the moonlight. It is dry and crackly, but only abrasive if you get too close. On the inside though, I can feel it melting. The skin melts in shivers down my spine and pools at my feet making it difficult to walk. “Men are anxious to improve their circumstances, but are unwilling to improve themselves.” I am men. 

     I love beginnings and I hate endings, but I can’t introduce myself and I write fierce farewell letters. I can tell you that I like words but I like people more and because I’m narcissistic, I like myself most. But if you let me continue, you would know that sometimes, that order is entirely inverted. If you let me continue, you would know that I know what is right and desperately want people to think I’m good, but I rarely do anything truly good. I think you would notice that I’m hypocritical because I’m a teenager, bipolar because I’m hormonal, and genuinely terrified. I’m terrified because I’m living in this skin that is too new, but nobody said it was youthful. It is the skin that hears rumors about weather.  I will tell you that I feel really invincible because I’m so young, but that’s only my way of telling you how vulnerable I really am. I am hypersensitive to awkward moments, but that’s funny, because I create them. 

So here’s to the speaker. She’s the hero, but she’s no saint.