I'm afraid of making mistakes overthinking every scenario that presents picturing bad consequences, and taking a turn into a foreign direction—what if something suddenly goes down the drain? I'm performing mathematical calculations to predict the outcome of every action extracting negative variables out of the equation.
I've become a coward, a scaredy-cat jumping in silence passing a mirror in sunlight and reminding myself that it is me—a bleak face fidgeting anxiously as if being examined under a microscope though there is no one looking and the examiner is none other than me.
I'm everyone's cheerleader. I love everyone. I love to be there to strip them of their pain—rain is more beautiful when it's shared, but I think what they say about me is a lie.
They say I'm born for good news and deserve the world to acknowledge my mess of a mind, have a pure soul that cares too much for the wellbeing of everyone—tend to their whims and play a martyr undermining my flame's screams.
They say I'm strong when I'm weak—my backbone is bent in half, not responding to my plea to tough up, change is scary, defined by scars, I'm not ready, I've had enough.
But I have to change.
I have to shed skin and wear new designs of rough texture and million fabrics sewn together to form a shaped somebody who's not ashamed of standing straight and proud and being out in the open showing off themselves.
I have to.
They say I'm born for good things.
Change is a good thing, right?
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