I'm used to this face.
I've seen it a million times; in scorn, in happiness, in relief, in pure hatred. It's my face, with my eyes haphazardly placed on, bulging and round with lips that don't know how to smile. It's my face, but it's not me.
If I could, I would tear this mask off, but it's glued to my skull. It's not me though, what I am is a mixture of memories that's regurgitating what I've experienced. This is just a body. This is not me. It will never be. These rolls of fat that stick out my shirt - not me. The scars on my leg that have faded are not me. They're what I created. What I am is emotion, emotion and pain and hate and everything there is to not be, piloting the body I wish to destroy.
If I could, I would be nothing. I'd just be a void, even less than a void and not live. If I could, I would be a beautiful petite girl with hair flowing to her shoulders and a face that makes people look twice. If I could, I'd be an animal with nothing to fear except for being eaten. If I could, I'd be a boy with a flat chest and a tousle of hair, long fingers and a warm smile. I would be anything except me - if I could.
by Anastasija Stradniece