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What if Cinderella was actually a slave whose prince led her through the Underground Railroad? What if Aurora had social anxiety? What if Snow White had Dissociative Identity Disorder?
These thoughts run through my head. Stop, I tell myself. They are just thoughts. My hands are red and raw from the scorching water mixed with bubbling soap. They tell me to stop, but how can I?
What happens after I am happy, I'm energetic and alright. I'll be happy for a while, Not tiered at all, Keeping myself up, With these ideas of joy and love. This is my state of mania perhaps,
when i was little, it was endearing, and my parents would smile behind their hands and whisper: “she has very small circles, but she loves who she loves.” and i would frown behind mine because i loved no one.