A teacher sits in front of a class,
spewing words of wisdom on how to construct flows
and defining ourselves within the words we speak.
The words we write.
"Someone, someday, somewhere, will want to hear your story."
He tells this to a class of insecurities that construed the beings before him.
But I continue writing in this small notepad
with the hopes that maybe, just maybe,
someone, someday, somewhere, will want to hear the story of a girl with PTSD
A girl who was denied love before she even knew the sense of the world.
A girl who is fierce, but anxious.
A girl like me.