1642734778_punk-57-pdf

at.” I lick my dry lips, still avoiding his eyes. “Like I could feel their eyes
crawling over my skin. Were they disgusted by me? Why didn’t they like
me? I shouldn’t have cared. I shouldn’t have thought that kids who shunned
me would be worth it, but I did.”
I finally raise my eyes and find his green ones watching me, unblinking.
“And in my head,” I continue, “Delilah was holding me back. I needed
better friends. So one day I ran off. When recess time came, I hid around a
corner so she wouldn’t find me, and I watched her. Waiting for her to go off
and play with someone else so I could do the same and she wouldn’t look
for me.
I swallow, my throat stretching painfully.
“But she didn’t,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “She just stood
against a wall, alone and looking awkward and uncomfortable. Waiting for
me.” My body shakes, and I start to cry. “That was the day I became this.
When I started to believe that a hundred people’s fickle adoration was
worth more than one person’s love. And for a while it felt kind of good.”
Tears stream down my face. “I was lost in the novelty of it. Being mean,
slipping in a quick insult, making a joke of others and of my teachers…I
felt respected. Adored. My new skin suited me.”
And then more images creep in, still so vivid after all this time.
“But months later, when I’d see Delilah playing alone, being laughed at,
not having anywhere to belong…I started to hate that skin I was so
comfortable in. The skin of a fake and shallow coward.”
I wipe the tears, trying to take in a deep breath. He’s looking at me, but
the heat of shame covers my face, and I’m worried. What does he think of
me?
“And when I started writing you a year later,” I go on, “I needed you so
much by that point. I needed someone I could be the person I wanted to be