For as long as I can remember, people have been asking me why I don't celebrate my birthday.
Maybe it's because I'm partly an introvert and thus I lack enjoyment in statuses they post or instagram stories they mention me in, but no, I wish that was the real reasoning behind my no self post tradition.
You see, my mind is an infinite capsule that opens up like Pandora's box whenever I get triggered by any events that correlate to my dad, —the annoyingly smart, but was ignorant enough not to dodge a car bullet from his treacherous yet smugly dead ex girlfriend.
If anything I should blame him for making me so vulnerable to the point where my nostrils flare up at the thought of endless nights crying myself to sleep because he couldn't as always have enough time to stay and watch me grow up.
I remember most things, —the time he cancelled dinner whereas I'd worn my favourite clothing which included boots that were beginning to not fit me, —to him showing up at my 1st grade prizing (and his last) but having to leave for work whilst I begged him, BEGGED HIM to spend the rest of the day with me as I never got time to see him properly anymore.
I know that I never hold grudges against anyone but man I loathe the bustard.
I loathe him so much that I cry at the thought of forgetting the only memories I have of him, —his BMW leather seats and the way in which he carried himself. A lot of people tell me that I get my confidence from him and that furthermore annoys me so much so that I smile at the obvious epiphany that I am my fathers daughter.
I can't help it, I enter a room and immediately all eyes fall upon me, the dad charm I've inherited in which I've dubbed a blessing and a curse, because that's all I'll ever be; cursed.
Forced to recollect and preserve my time with him like some old haggard photo album.
Consciously trapped in 2012 as a 7 year old girl who never once admitted out loud that she had a hard time attending a new school quarter way in, fatherless and turning 8 in eight months without the man who claimed to have loved me everytime he tried to express himself.
I hate myself sometimes, for hugging my uncle that one time when he was trying to prove that I preferred him over my father, over and over again it's crazy.
So here I am, listening to Taylor Swift's nothing new, losing track of time on the 1st of December after midnight as I try to elaborate on the nicest possible reason to why I wish not to be celebrated in 12 days.
If you have made it this far then you'd realise that it's simple; —i fucking hate my birthday.
And don't you try to change my mind.
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...Promising Young Woman...
Poetry◇ ◆ ◇ So... is this the part where I find myself? ◇ ◆ ◇ A/N: I need you guys to reload my book and check to see how some of the chapters have been edited, recreated and permanently removed. Thank you for reading my book and for also being patient wi...
