I'm 12 and I've been reading for 352 days straight and I have no interest in the people around me and why should I? I'm 14 in this one and my sheets have polka dots on them and my pillow is Avril Lavigne's face and I'm thinking about the girl at school with pink hair and slow penmanship. When I'm 16 you are 15 and holding my hand and I'm asking about french homework and trying not to focus on the movement of your thumb around mine which is not friendship. This time I'm 21 and your thick bones outline my thin and I like this small feeling.
I spent a lot of time growing up wondering about my ****** orientation and struggling to find a box I could fit and move and wiggle in at the same time as being terrified of other people and completely fascinated at the thought of not being.