“Why do you expect me to be a normal teenager when nothing’s been normal since I was fifteen? We’ve packed our things and unpacked our thing and sold our things and moved our asses from house to house and have been driven away both by people who’re supposed to drive us away and not drive us away. I’ve trusted and lost that trust and I’ve been mocked for what I do for an ounce of normalcy, and when I do act my age you expect to be mature but when I act mature you say I’m too old for my skin and that I should act my age.What do you want from me?” I sigh and turn my head away.
The last thing I tell the grown-ups is this: sometimes I can’t help but close my eyes and imagine myself running a rubber eraser across this memory. Because It wouldn’t even have been a memory if I were a normal teenager.