What if I told you I haven't shaved my legs, my hair is *****, and I'm only wearing a big sweatshirt, underwear, and a bra on a cold Sunday morning?
What if I told you that I'm full of contradictions, breaking without warning?
What if I told you I was huddled under covers crying about imaginary characters, scribbling out my feelings through the blood of a pen or the sweat of a keyboard?
What if I told you that I'm endlessly entertained, yet endlessly bored?
What if I told you that makeup makes me break out, trying to be pretty just makes me feel stupid, the only people I can talk to honestly are strangers, and to those I know I hide and put it all on the shelf?
What if I told you that I ask others who they think I am, because I can't put a label on myself?