Once upon a time in a familiar place your little girl was born. Christmas was seven months away, yet I was named after your favorite holiday. When you looked into my eyes there was hope I’d make a better life by choosing everything and anything that would never change your view. You gave birth to your daughter, yes, but I was never meant to be you.

I’m the exact opposite of the picture perfect girl though I still like pretend in-front of strangers, family and friends. I paint myself in pretty ribbons and white dresses stained with blanc wine and misery. It’s either «she’s a princess», «electric gal» or «the fakest one you will ever meet», and the worst part of this narrative is that all these adjectives are full of candor and jealousy.

Nothing is ever black or white, and neither is it gray. It’s prism color glitches in a sepia film where you find the damsel in distress. I’m waiting for the cowboy to come and rescue me from the incoming train of thought. You raised me in these movies between eight and fourteen, and by fifteen I thought they would be real if I wished hard enough.

Whine just like a little kid, and it got worse when I out-grew my tantrums crying over injustices I’m starting to accept as part of my life now. Never wanting to be indifferent, yet never wanting to cause controversies. Fought against the world at eighteen, but quit and mimicked every single world I stood against for at twenty.

By twenty-one disappointment struck when I never met the love of my life after spending four-years with a book stuck between my nose and creative mind. I was starting to get jealous of all the other girls who were getting engaged and had their fathers walk them down the aisle. Soon mine will not remember my name nor how we used to talk about the third celebrity of the month I fell in love.

He was my confidant, and I confessed to him the stories I would have never told you. He knew about my first beer behind the school parking lot. At seventeen I was too naive so he made sure to be the one to drop me off. Wish I could go back, hug him twice before joining my friends at the arcade at we played late in the night.

To you I don’t really talk much, I’m too scared of the truth and hold back from a caring thought. But I’m older now, I can hold my liquor and know when to stop before I spill my guts to the one I love. Oh to be twenty-two again and stop myself from falling for him, tell him off and keep my innocence locked in a heart-shaped necklace. Apologies for not keeping my promise. I’ve messed around, and now I regret every single thing I did for him. All because he threaten to leave while I still continue to do everything even when I cried no, no and please.

I know it’s not my fault, but who else can I blame? Lust and bad decisions after three am? Stayed on the phone for hours, had to entertain his mind with some imaginary house play, husband and wife. He divorced me the very next day after I gave him everything. Now I’m twenty-five, I’ve gained weight and I can’t seem to find the motivation to walk benefiting miles after spending hours in front of blue screens oasis. Talking politely, drafting letters, and secretly writing poems when my bosses don’t see.

Soon I’ll be twenty-six and making the best worst decisions. Already dyed my hair the color of your favorite holiday and my favorite Disney princess. Stopped drinking after three since I never liked the version of myself when I’m intoxicated with ocean vibes and tequila shots. Don’t raise my hopes up for the boy who remembered I prefer tea over coffee or never minded I was a Swiftie. Still call myself a feminist and pay for everything I need and want to show off to all the disappointing men I can buy myself my own drinks and diamond rings.

Tell myself again and again it’s fine if you don’t see your best friends every day. We’re growing up, we are on our own, and life keeps throwing a new beginning to this never-ending story of growing old and wanting everything to stay the same. Did you ever feel the same way?

[Photo by nrd on Unsplash]