Awkward silences are part of the script, I promise.

♡ meher's angsty blog ♡

When you’re three and you want to cry on your first day of school, throw a fit, use your lungs to their maximum capacity, screw your eyes shut.

When you’re four, use your mother’s makeup when she isn’t around. If she asks you about it, panic.

When you’re five, sit across the table from your qaarisaab. When he tries to touch you, slap his hand away, scream for your nanny, tell your mother.

When you’re six and you see your nanny stealing your mother’s lipstick, don’t cry. Tell your mother. Feel bad about it. Wave goodbye when your nanny leaves on her son’s bicycle.

When you’re seven and the girls refuse to invite you to their parties, lock yourself in a school bathroom, read all the rude things on the wall. Contribute. Erase.

When you’re eight, tell every boy you’re better than him. Push them off the bouncy castles at…

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