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Nineteen.

I thought I’d feel it when it was done. He saw through it. He saw what I meant, though I hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t perfect, not even close. It was full of flaws, marked by what it wasn’t—the lack of movement, the lack of love. That was all over it. 

I raised my middle finger, but not out of anger. Their hands claimed me, and when they left me here, it was like the abandoned child suddenly became a genius, only recognized once the gold glittered.

Only then did it matter. It was supposed to be about joy, but as I stood there, blindsided, taking every blow that wasn’t meant for me, I felt it. Just a little—the satisfaction. I had done it, but they refused to see it.

My life has always been linked to death. Almost like a curse—someone important dies around my birthday. Coincidence, maybe, but the fear is real.

I can see the preparation for what I walked into, but I see the love more. I should believe in it. I finally spoke of the emptiness. The hollowness that crushes me—it wouldn't have hurt if I didn’t have a heart, a name, something proving I’m human. No joy, no sadness. I feel nothing.

I prayed for something this morning. Tonight, I might pray to take it away. I hope I feel something on this birthday.

Nineteen, be the answer to my soul, not the end of my worth.

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