I am a story. An unfinished novel, if you will. I'm full of half-forgotten bedtime stories of faraway lands, dry sugar cookies that are still my favourites, brown and green eyes, constant piano playing, seeing my siblings' art hung up on the wall - covering up my own. I'm drowning in teapots, unorthodox backyard camping, off-brand root beer, and sneaking out of windows to dance in the rain.

I'm a torn up piece of paper with the words 'hold on' scribbled in different colors of pen covering every surface.

I'm a bullied, neglected, broken, half of a story. I'm experiencing the second act first. The part where everything's ******.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, until it gets better. Somebody let me know when I can come out from underneath the blankets.