I’ll put my books back on the shelf.

I was the girl who was insane for literature, for sad books. I was the girl who hid novels in boxes beneath my bed. I was the girl who people don’t always get because of the occasional talking about death, and mysteries, of contempt, of my obsessions, of dead poets and unwillingness to converse and express.

               I was the eight year old girl who chose to read Tale of Two Cities instead of playing outside. And I was crazy over Jane Austen when the rest of the girls my age we’re crazy for boys and having boyfriends.

I would always quote Sylvia.

I would always listen.

I would always daydream that my life is not real and I belong in a world I always imagine. But my world is too vague, rooted from the random scenes I play in my head. Things I want to happen. Things I know that will never happen.

I was the girl who watched too much movies. Both old and new. The girl who wished to live in black and white films, where everything was neat, and everyone’s hair was set. I watched too much movies.

               I became too idealistic

               I believed I can make romance.

               But it’s ironic how I never believed in love.

                                 Love. It exists only in movies and books. I was the girl who believed in that.

                                                And what people feel, and what I feel (sometimes), is just a strong connection.

                                                And that strong connection, we call love.

                                 Because love is fiction.

But love in fiction is real.

I was the smart girl who hated everyone, who would always see flaws in everyone. Who would always shame older people when they were wrong. The girl with the big ego. And low self-esteem. And it really doesn’t go well together.

I wanted to be hated. I wanted to be adored.

I wanted to be heard. I wanted to be ignored.

                                I was the girl who was never sure of herself.

                                                People say I’m a contradiction.

                                                                I don’t believe what people say. I believe what people say.

                                                                                It doesn’t matter.

I wanted to be hated. I wanted to be adored.

No, I (don’t) want anything from this world.

I was the girl with different lives. Different faces for different people. And I have loathed trying to adapt to what people expect of me. And I stopped. You can see in their faces, traces of disappointment, of disgust, of disbelief. It didn’t matter.

                I grinned like I’ve killed them all. And I really did kill them all – in my head.

I was the girl who smoked on sidewalks. Who would always make coffee in the morning, in the afternoon and late nights. The girl who wrote fragments all day, in bed; who bathed every other day and stayed two hours in the shower.

I was the girl who had hard time passing out over alcohol. I was the girl who drank a lot and would always feel guilty after. The girl who hated being with people, yet keeps on being with people in hopes of feeling better.

But I don’t feel any better. I am better alone.

In a room with white walls, in a bed with white sheets. An open window. An ashtray on the side and endless music playing.

I was the girl without any reason. The girl who knew who she was, but didn’t know who she is, who she will be. The girl who deteriorated herself in hope of fading, but never fades.

                And it’s exhausting.

                                I wanted to end. I wanted to last.

                                                People say I’m a contradiction.

                                                                I don’t believe what people say. I believe what people say.

                                                                                It doesn’t matter.

I was the girl who always runs away. A coward. Always scared. Always running, always in flight. The girl who never leaves, but always says goodbye.

              Goodbye.

              And it’s funny how I’m still here.

                               Daydreaming that my life is not real.