I\'ve always loved pretty things.
Maybe that\'s why I never cared for the mirror- but that is beside the point.
I loved pink when I was younger, a colour so soft and yet so bold.
Purple is my favourite now.
It doesn\'t look as meek.
I painted daffodils where now my sketchbooks are filled with eyes.
I used to hold up my sparkling fingers to tell people that I am four years old.
Nine times out of then I was holding up three fingers.
I can\'t hold up the number eighteen on my hands.
I\'m off track again, damn it.
I like pretty things; sunsets, rainbows, rings, rocks that sparkle in the light.
Somehow those pretty things filled a part of me that was empty.
They gave colour to my world.
Now, at eighteen- everything looks gray.
My poems aren\'t about kittens and bunnies anymore.
I\'m terrified of my future.
I want to be four again.
I don\'t want to see that the sunsets are all the same shades of pink.
I don\'t want to realize that daffodils are pale in colour.
I don\'t want to be eighteen.
The world used to look so pretty.
Why doesn\'t it look pretty anymore?