White Pages and Perfect Crayons
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When I was young, I used to color until my hands were stained with marker, pencil shavings, or paint.
When I was young, I used to color until my hands were cramped from gripping a pencil too tight, my fingers sore from smudging the colors together.When I was young, I would open my crayon box, and be attacked by a scent of colored wax sticks, waiting to unleash creativity.
But that was as a child.But that was as a child who was bright and creative.
But that was as a child who had to use a stepstool to reach for things she could not yet grasp.
But that was as a child who strove to grasp the very things she could not reach yet, striving to grasp even the tiniest thread.
But that was as a child who didnβt care how she appeared to society.
But that was as a child who did not find weakness in asking for help.
But that was as a child who was not pressured to fit into the world.
But that was as a child who was told to stand up and fight for herself, paving a path for others to do the same.
But that was as a child who did not strive for perfection, but rather βgood enough.βNow, you see, that child grew up to be me.
I am no longer the little girl who could not do her hair.
I am no longer the little girl who could not reach the highest shelves.
I am no longer the little girl who strives for 'good enough.
I am no longer the little girl who was βloud and obnoxiousβ who just wanted to have fun.I am older now, and I have stripped myself to a plain white page of paper, waiting to be colored into a masterpiece.
I am older now, and I have reduced myself to clay, waiting to be molded into perfection.
I am older now, and I realize that I am still the artist who must mold myself into perfection and paint a masterpiece.
I am older now, but my artist has died, and so I am self-aware of every imperfection that I try to hide.
I am older now, and jealousy fills my heart.Jealousy fills my heart when I see the girls who are deemed so perfect and pretty by society.
Jealousy fills my heart, and I have changed everything about myself, just to try to grasp the perfection that I strive for.
Jealousy fills my heart, so I must whisper to myself: βI wil
be just like you.βI strive to be the pretty, skinny girl with clear skin, who has a bunch of friends and gets invited to everything.
I strive to look so pretty, even when Iβve been through hell and back to get where I am.
If I were to meet the mini-me, the girl who used to color until her hands were stained with marker ink and colored pencil shavings, I would tell her to never stop creating.I would tell her to never stop creating, because once she stops and gets a taste of perfection, she will lose her colors, and her hands will not be sore any longer.
She will lose her colors and her hands will not be sore any longer.
She will turn into a plain white sheet of paper, trying to blend in with the rest of the world.
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Guys I promise Iβm okay, this is just something I came up with-
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π€ππ₯π¬π°π±π£ππ π’π€ GIRL I WAS WHIPPING UP A WHOLE ASS DM THANK GOD
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Blake I PROMISE IβM OKAY.
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