Steve

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When I was twelve I had a friend named Steve. I trusted him enough to tell him that I hurt inside.

I told him, "I hurt all the time. But it's okay, because someday I will show them that I see something amazing... something deep and strange and magical. I don't know what it is, but when I show it to them they will need it as much as I do."

"No," He laughed. "They don't care, they will never want something they can't understand. They will laugh at you too."

I pushed him to the ground and started punching him.

He was bleeding, and I was crying. "No... you are wrong," I wept, "they will need it, they will."

It's not your fault.

But fuck you, Steve.

Fuck you for being right.

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