I knew who I was, and it got exposed in a way I didn’t like. The way you could assume so much on the other using a method that only needs to be read, and not by getting to know the other; an attack on the person who I was. An attack opposing my exact methods; to not categorize another but to single them out and act as if they do not have a category.

The hurt; I collapsed. And so I abandoned it in order to save my ego. The idea that I could be untold in an instant destroyed me. I lived a life far too long to put it down to this.

The truth; I kept an aspect to maintain my ego, the willingness, the love. The idea that I serve higher by being the angel on your shoulder. It all stayed, in the act of commitment and relationship.

Who I am? I’m still a little girl, a “spoiled brat”. I am small and I want to feel small forever. To kill me is to rid of that smallness, I act out in a way someone small would never. You rid of the person I am.

I was cherished as a child, forms of neglect never seemed to cause me too much harm because I was given the world through my hedonistic and materialistic desires. It still continues to be this way. I suffered abuse for a long time because I loved the way it made others react when they heard or saw it, they got to comfort me through my results. But that is an inaccurate way to portray it, I was abused and just loved the comfort. Any child would.

Here I am, I am trying to be deceptive and make you believe I am more calculated than I am because I feel exposed. A way a child would lie, because they too yearn to feel bigger, and turn older. But being in the middle of having a body that is big, and a mental state that is small causes a lot of cognitive dissonance.

No one seems to notice how immature my social maturity is, no one seems to notice how exactly immature I am. I act like a child, but because I am older no one believes me. I get scolded with criticism if I do something wrong; I no longer get pampered because I am not my initial size. But I can convince anyone around me of how young I am.

I will act as if I’m their little sister, someone who they are babysitting, a lost child of my mothers, something smaller to nourish and love. I will be whatever role can fit me to be the youngest, most pitiful, disturbingly sad brat.

I do take exact pride in that. That being read of me is disturbing. It makes me become big. I do not want to take on a bigger body than I already have, a wider mental state of mind. To be aware is to be older, to not dream is to be old. If you don’t dream, then you’ve already experienced everything you’ve dreamed of. And if you’re aware, then you’ve already experienced everything that has made you this aware.

I cry, please pamper me. Please love me. In any form I am. I want to be noticed by you so bad, that I am willing to go to the extremes. I can insert an image that is inauthentic, and use big words like inauthentic, so you will believe me and pay attention to me.

Praise, praise me. Pay attention to my grammar choice please, I’m using the things I’ve learnt because I’m a smart girl, pay attention to my words. Essentially; pay attention to all of me, in my most dire state.

The soul inside me is still hurting, it’s small. And it loves to be hurt, it loves to have pity taken on it, because it loves feeling small. Please do not hesitate to hurt me if it only proves you love me and that you pay attention to my soul. I love to feel hurt this way, I love to be a masochist as it proves my subservience.

When I was in a young body, I was free to hurt others because I could make no mistake. But because my body is seemingly older, I am now exceptionally in need to be hurt on a constant and feel hurt; to be pushed to be reborn as a child again.

Even so, I find ways to hurt others through childish mannerisms. Taking upon a role of a character, pretending life is fiction and I’m just reenacting a scene to get out my frustration, my hurt; my life is of a fantasy, and nothing truly exists outside a scene.

I do not want to grow up. I’m as young as 7, and as old as 10. If I were to write with my true feelings, there would be more grammatical errors and childish way of talking. This is my feign of independence and assertion. I want you to understand me, reader. So that I don’t have to hold onto this burden. Do not reject me.