i have won a thousand thousand lotteries in my few years. a part of me was at the betting table, taking loans against a future i didn't even know i had. i've made out so well with it all, only to find that there is no philanthropy of traits.
i am a mother, a good friend, an old soul, a giver of sage advice, and all before i am eighteen. these titles have been given to me, and my name has grown long as a prince's. but long ago the words fell apart, and my belief is no longer suspended. it is so impossible for a person with such a cleft heart to be so grand. i deny them, even as i know they are based in fact. i cannot accept that my misery is just as ingrained a trait as the others.
i remember spending hours in trances, letting movies and books hypnotize me into caring. the hero was always so selfless, and had so many friends. the promise of companionship is such an intoxicating thing. i give everything i can and still feel like an imposter, as if i can stun them into staying by giving so much. they always leave.
and then i am alone again. people make such a spiderweb of their relationships, and i am left so perfectly puzzled into the middle of them; i am unable to move and yet i disappear with ease. i leave, and yet i go nowhere.









