their hearts are savage

after avoiding it for quite some time. Not sure why I do that. The book is The Burning Girl and it isn’t the best book I’ve read, it’s not near it, but it feels so familiar. The description of the dissolved friendship, the holding on to youth and wanting to pretend far beyond the years when it’s “appropriate” to pretend. The humiliation of being a teenage girl whose body defies her constantly. The yearning to fit in somewhere, to have a person or people who get you and looking into the future for when you’ll finally be the person you want to be. I’ve never really reached that final form, and I don’t think I ever will. It makes me comfortable and uncomfortable. I put those times away. I wrote my own narrative where I was the victim, I was left behind, I wasn’t wanted. That’s the way I tell my own story, but is it really correct? I need to go back and visit myself then and sit with those feelings and those moments and those memories that make me who I am or who I made myself become.