You think you know me better than I know myself, I take that as an insult. With a statement you belittled my every effort. Years spent figuring myself out. Swinging between loving and hating myself every day for as long as I can remember. Learning, unlearning and relearning everything society teaches little girls.
And you barge in one day, read the highlighted parts and pretend to know everything about me.
No, you don’t, dear. I am like a book that has been attempted to be read by a lot of people. Take me as a second-hand book, that doesn’t have a home, that belongs to no one and is a wanderer. With too many stories scribbled in the margins and too many secrets in its binding. You never know where it is going to end up, in a corner of a dusty shelf or hands of a reader.