Don't wait.

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Let’s not romanticize high school love.

You’re not Romeo, no matter what you think.

In fact, I’d hope you’re better.

I hope.

 

I think that I’m better, I think.

Even though she broke my heart.

Twice.

I think.

 

I was never Romeo

I don’t think I was better, either.

I tried to die over a stupid girl

Didn’t he?

 

But it’s different, I am a stupid dyke.

My church doesn’t want to love me.

Even though I love them.

I think.

 

I take my pencil and draw.

It’s mediocre art that no one likes.

It’s ugly and unappealing.

I feel.

 

These passed years, I forsook my parents.

But my mom means the world, she really does.

I wrap myself in her arms and cry.

I love.

 

I bathe myself in color.

Keep distance from the fake.

Even if my mind’s surreal.

I dream.

 

I’m getting better; I know I am.

The scars have faded.

Raised pink scars that look like tiger stripes.

I heal.

 

I think about God and my mom.

If no one loves me, they do.

So what if I’m a starving artist?

I succeed.

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