A letter
Ok kid. Here's the thing:
I see how you look at me; It's always at a distance, from the corner of your eye, disgust and fear written plainly on your face.
You don't like me. I know this already.
But I am tired of you tucking away into a far corner and pretending I don't exist, turning your back to me, even when I confront you daily.
You blame yourself for the way we interact but I can't help thinking it's me and not you. I cause this reaction, not you. I don't think there is anything wrong with you at all, and I want to help you understand this.
Why are you so afraid? You keep going in circles, arriving back at the same place, right in front of me, only to turn away again. Just stop and listen and really think.
But you won't.
You act as if not giving me attention will make me disappear.
You should know better.
I am the bubble gum on your shoe you must peel off with your fingers to avoid a sticky mess everywhere you step.
I am the peanut butter you dearly love but must forego so your skin doesn't itch and swell.
I am the deer you must now dispatch, because you weren't paying attention to what was in front of you before you crashed into me.
I am door number one, two, and three in a horror movie (spoiler: none of them are great, but you might - might - survive the right one).
I am the chaos of life when the promise of death seems so much easier, cleaner, and more effective.
I am the uncomfortable choice.
I am the choice you prefer to avoid, a painful Thing you refuse to acknowledge because it stings.
I am the choice that grows in size and weight and ferocity, and makes you regret not addressing me when I was small and not so fearsome.
I am the choice that makes you flinch when choosing, waiting for the recoil.
I am the hard choice.
The choice you don't want to make,
but must.
Because I am Yours.
Truly,
Kismet