I feel so weird and small and misunderstood. I try to be authentic. The things that bring me joy they don't understand. The things that unsettle me make no sense to them.
But they make sense to me. They finally make sense.
The young tattooed late night ice cream fans are my kin. Swearing and showing off their loud clothes and makeup. This feels authentic. So why does it make him so uncomfortable.
I was once that uncomfortable. I never want to be that way again.
I'd rather die than be that way again.
How can they not see how poisonous that way of life is for me. Stubbornness, small minded, agoraphobic. Like every value they had morphed and contorted into it's worst possible iteration in my mind. Like a mold left for two decades to grow and rot it's substrate.
It's clear to me I am not the child they expected to have. But I am kind. And loud. And I speak for myself. And I don't hold my tongue. And I'm curious about people different than me. And I'm not afraid to live or die.