To whoever cares;

It is an agonizing delusion, one that haunts me through all the walls I am surrounded by. It seems that I am unable to relate to my fellow peers, they who are unbroken by the strange ways of the hallways we walk through every day. I am scared that I am never to be like them- I want to be like them. Why do I have to be different among so many faces that all look the same? But, it is confusing- are they the same in face or attitude? Am I different within myself or among them? How is one ever sure?

            Is it possible that I was born wrong? Could I be that one person that suffers, that one person who makes them all look below and say, “such a shame.”

This is probably irrelevant to you, dear reader, for I am probably just a person with a life you do not care about. But, if you were to know me, if you were to see me, would you think differently? Could you see the shame upon my face, or would you be able to read it within my movements? Am I someone that relates to your dear thought to angels or fire; am I beautiful or am I strange?

    I often sometimes wonder what the men think of when they look upon me, do they laugh in corners protected by concrete, or do they relish the feeling of seeing me, seeing a girl who has nothing on her but the noun tall. It seems to me that I am the best example for the worst type of child. I am the alternative substance from the goddesses throughout our society. There is many forward women who are at travesty within themselves, but I am most likely not one of them. For my issues lie within others, they’re souls do not match with mine.

Sometimes I am thought of by myself to be of a different nature than all those other humans. Me, who am I- a person, an animal, a girl, a titan.
           It is difficult for me to customize myself properly to win all the hearts I wish to adore. And it is hard for me to admit failure upon my own behavior. Dear reader, have you ever been angered by a simple gesture from a simple person? Am I so strange, or am I normal compared to all the eighteen year olds in the universe? I’m sorry, for so many questions, but I must know, what is it about myself that is so dissatisfying? For my mirror does not shatter, and my parents seem to adore me. For the friends I have trust me, and the friends I have lost seem grave. I can read properly and write this letter, I can open a door and smile when I am not in the mood for happy. It is probably obvious to you that these simple tasks are not well to do, but for me they are such beautiful things, things that I can do. It is hard for me to be proud of myself that is excruciatingly true, but please reader, have a heart, what am I to you?