I could hand over all of my belongings, and still not please enough people.
I could contract myself into an angstrom, and still take up too much space in your dusty home that you made of insults and demands.
I could become a certified genius, and you will still prove me wrong on my darkest days.
Just try not to kick me too much when I am already down.
See...I was diagnosed with anemia when I was nine or ten or eleven
And I bruise easily and you will leave marks up and down my body like a sour love that I haven't had enough of and those bruises will tell my story but the plot line still won't satisfy you.
Will it?
I first realized I was a people pleaser at the age of fourteen when I would hand over lengthy excuses of why I couldn't spend a Saturday night out on the town
The most intricate little stories
The most elaborate timelines
Just so I would not hurt you
and did they ever really mean anything in the first place
and I shrink into myself because I know no one will care if the light bulb in my room went out
but see that light bulb got me out of bed and now it's dimmed and I'm being suffocated by a blanket that is shedding pink lint balls onto my bruised arms and tomorrow I will return to people pleasing and it will have all be a mistake.
Me not them.
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