I’m Not Everyone.

They said I wasn’t special.
That everyone feels this way. That everyone lives through this. That everyone hurts, and bleeds, and breaks, and stitches themselves up the same way.
Like I’m not allowed to call it mine.
Like my pain is just a recycled story on a loop.

But here’s the thing.
Even if someone else has cried like me, screamed like me, wanted to disappear like me
No one ever did it as me.
No one else wore these shoes, walked these sidewalks, counted these cracks in the ceiling at 3AM.
No one else heard these exact words at the exact moment they split my heart in half.

Everyone might bleed red.
But this is still my cut.
My ache.
My story.

And if no one else will tell it, I will.

Because I’m not everyone.
And I’m done pretending otherwise.

There was a popular boy in school today who said his mom makes him chocolate-chip pancakes every morning.
He said it like it was sacred.
Like it was normal.
Like it was owed.

I’m just lucky if I get a cup of coffee in me fast enough to stay awake for two hours.

I am not everyone.

Currently: tired, but still here.