People had made me feel wrong for whatever I did all the time – I always did the wrong thing at the wrong moment, said too much or didn’t say enough, thought too much or didn’t think at all, loved scarcely or so fiercely and passionately it destroyed me, cared too much or didn’t care at all. I was always wrong. They all said and thought so, their disgusted and disappointed glares impressed in my head, their malicious and evil whispers inked on my skin. So when you say I did something wrong, everything comes crushing down again. Every single one of those tidy little boxes I carefully stoked one over the another is shaking and slipping and falling down, all on me. Everything tumbles down. And I have to start again, with shakier fingers with racing thoughts with pounding heart with all those voices shouting in my head.
s.e.k.