I am from crazy, extravagant clothes
From the music a little too loud
The bloodshot eyes and long sleeves

I am from slamming doors, screaming and crying
From runny mascara and covered up bruises
The fake smiles

I am from love, too
From a warm home, filled with the smell of fresh cookies
The crinkled eyes and echoing laughter

I am from six Christmases
From an abundance of birthday presents
The millions of Thank You notes

I am from hot and cold
From this house to that house
The four parents and two siblings

I am from others
From what they have done to help sculpt me
The girl who’s done it all

I am from.

A letter to the stranger with the cold, gray eyes

Yes.
I know I look stupid.
I look like a seventeen year old,
with bleach blonde hair in pigtails.
Yes.
I know I look immature.
I look like a six year old,
with a bright pink shirt and black skirt.
Yes.
I know I look manic.
I look like a five year old,
with my bouncy and childish manner.
Yes.
I know I look weak.
I look like a fifteen year old,
with a smile that can’t hide my pain.
No.
You don’t know,
why I laugh at the little things,
or hang on to every word people say.
No.
You don’t hear me,
at home crying into my pillow,
playing with that cold piece of metal.
No.
You don’t see,
when I struggle to put my mask on every morning,
hiding my arms under long sleeves and gloves.
No.
You don’t feel,
the pain when someone you love hits you and leaves a bruise,
the fear that someone will find out.
So,
why do you think,
that it is okay to judge me?
Do you think I care about the way you look?
Do I glare at you when you talk loudly on the phone,
about your **** cheating wife?
Can’t we just agree that it is okay?
And never speak of it again?

Sincerely,
The hopeful girl who wants to look strong, but isn’t doing a good job