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When I was 8 I wrote stories; About princesses and pretty girls. My teachers praised me. “What a wonderful talent at a very young age!” My parents encouraged me. When I turned 11 my stories didn’t have endings. In these stories the big bad wolf wasn’t so bad and prince Charming was a narcissistic ***. My teachers were confused. “Sweetie wolves in the forest aren’t supposed to be nice and the prince is never the villain” My parents don’t quite understand. At 12 I turned to poems; I wrote about pretty girls who try to kill me and the bittersweet thought of dying. Nobody ever saw them. “Her work lacks passion and creativity.” My parents don’t know who I am. I’m 14 and I don’t understand; Sometimes I write stories with happily ever afters. Sometimes I write short excerpts with no endings. Sometimes I write poems about sweet melancholy. My teachers don’t know. My parents don’t care.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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