I am still me.

Still me.

I want to shout it from the highest places, just so that you can hear it and understand. Hear it and believe it. Hear it and trust me.

Still me.

Because that girl who dug around your garden and nearly ate night shade berries still exists. The one who crawled around on the carpets, playing with toy cars, she's still here. The child who sat cross-legged on the counter tops licking icing off her fingers is still alive.

She's still in here. Waiting for the day she sees the entire world. Pretending that she can fly even when the world has clipped her wings time and time again. Watching rain streak down the windows, admiring the ladies who traipse around in Victorian dresses when we watch those films you love.

She still awws at every sweet thing she stumbles across. And still hopes against all hope that she will live in an ancient forest. Who still adores Joan of Arc and loves to read poetry out loud.

Still me.

Still over watering plants because I have no idea when to stop giving.

Still up in the middle of the night dreaming.

Still singing.

Still here.

Still me.

That simple truth shouldn't change your opinion of me. Because it doesn't change who I am.