i was your manic pixie dream girl. i was just a hollow shell that you found beautiful and mysterious. in the letters you wrote to me, you compared me to zooey deschanel and the way all her characters seem to hide themselves under layers, waiting to be peeled back and understood by some unsuspecting male who needed a woman to make the story of their lives progress. but even after a year and a half, you failed to view me as a person and not a trope devised by authors and screenwriters with ***** that shriveled into their bodies. i thought i meant more to you, and you still probably believe i was just a lucky accident in your life. i've moved on to find boys that can almost see through me, even though i'm like war and peace and not the tissue paper you made me out to be. they can see i have a heart and guts and am more than a smattering of your favorite shade of blue on a canvas. you thought of me as a brush stroke, but baby, i'm the whole ******* painting.