I was having fun. Making pancakes. With Nutella filling. Singing my song. But then I found it. MY box of markers. Opened, with a few markers that fell to the floor. They took my markers. Used them. Let them fall to the floor. Now one of them is missing. My possessions is missing. MY SHIT IS MISSING. Because no one knows how to keep their hands to themselves. And despite knowing how much I hate it, Mom keeps letting them touch my shit. Just because she can’t say no to them. Just because she lets them do everything they want. Just like when we were little. Just like before. Just like always.
This is it. The slightest thing gets me off and I write about it so that I don’t cry tears but the words that I will never tell anyone but people that probably care as much about me as I care about history and not repeating its mistakes. So you can hear me out or get good laugh, either way you’ll say hello to me in the hallway and tell me about everyone unimportant thing in your life and think that our relationship will last forever. That it’s precious. But you don’t know me. And you’re probably not all that precious to me to being with.