｡ ₊°༺ STRAY ༻°₊ ｡
Many people look back on puberty and call themselves annoying—I look back and find myself pitiful.
Maybe that is an exaggeration. Maybe it is self-pity wearing a prettier dress. But whenever I remember who I was, I cannot help but think of a stray dog.
The kind that waits outside the same house every day, despite having been chased away often enough to know better. The kind that mistakes scraps for kindness and a hand held too close for affection.
That was me.
I could take indifference and stretch it until it resembled love. I could take neglect, turn it over in my hands, and convince myself it was merely a different dialect of care. I could bend my mind into impossible shapes just to make loneliness feel intentional.
But no matter how I twisted it, I could never untwist the ache in my chest.
Grief is stubborn like that.
To some people, I was probably just cringe. Embarrassing. Attention-seeking.
I was the reserved child who suddenly snapped and told classmates to shut up. The one who showed her scars to people and pretended it wasn't a plea. The one who did strange, desperate things and then hated herself for doing them.
But even if it was attention-seeking, what else is a stray dog supposed to do?
A creature that has gone unfed long enough will rummage through garbage. A creature that has gone untouched long enough will follow anyone who glances its way.
I would rot in my room like a promise long forgotten, lying in bed and staring at the door; waiting.
Secretly hoping someone would come in and tell me to eat.
Or shower.
Or simply ask whether I was awake.
I wanted to be noticed in the smallest ways.
I wanted proof that my existence was still inconveniencing someone.
Back then, I hated myself with an almost religious devotion.
I wanted that version of me dead.
Not because she was cruel,
Not because she was embarrassing,
But because I was terrified of her.
Terrified of remembering what it felt like to need people that much. Terrified of how easily I could become her again if life pressed hard enough against the same bruises.
I feared her the way one fears returning to a childhood home and discovering that every light is still on.
Because then you cannot pretend you've moved on.
Now, when I think of who I was, the hatred is gone.
I do not look at that version of myself with disgust anymore, I look at her the way people look at a stray dog eating.
Quietly.
A bit heartbroken.
Wondering how long it has been since she was fed.
Wondering who taught her to be grateful for scraps.
Wondering why no one stopped long enough to take her home.
