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 © farah sultan | Year Posted 2016
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