WHEN YOU SEE THESTRALS, DON’T TELL THEM.

I lost the story I was writing in my head on the train home. My rage-written manifesto of why I’m just better off alone; why you’re just like all the others. It was a good slap, brash and brazen. But I lost it. So this is what we have now…

You, are a reluctant misfit. You are a certified, card-carrying member of the misfit club (and so I fell for you). But now I realize you’re a reluctant card-carrying member of the misfit club (and I don’t know what to do with that information).

You grew up wanting more friends; I grew up happy that my nose was in a book.

You want to condition your children to change how they act depending on context; I want to raise children to break down walls and wear their heart on their sleeve. Always.

I march to my own drum, publicly. I disagree, I challenge, I soothe, I destroy, I create. I do not apologize and I do not contextualize. When I feel my mouth fill with the expectation of itchy silence, and see the eyebrows raise, and hear the carnivores licking their chops I do not stay for long. In fact, I flee. I run like my life depends on it. Because it does.

Because I’ve learned that when you can see thestrals, you don’t tell those that can’t.

I shook death’s hand for the first time when I was tiny. And I’ve climbed into the lap of God more times than I can count. And I’ve realized that I can not contain myself. Because I am designed to spill out, to reach out, to be out. Though she be but little, and all.

I’ve walked along the fringe of society, at times I’ve been tempted to dive in. But after skimming my hand on the surface I realized it is a tangle of rope binding my body to the pile of sticks ready to ignite. I am the witch they always want to burn.

You, dear, are resisting your misfit status but there’s no use. I’ll tell you why: You can’t pretend to be them, you duck swan. They won’t believe you, and you’ll waste away trying. Because they can smell the wild on you. Their chains are ready, the traps are lain. Do you hear that? The cocking of the guns? Wake up before you lose your foot, little bear.

 

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