I'm a skinny teenager in dirty jeans and steel-toe work boots, moving pallets around by means of a manual lifter; a pump truck, in accordance with the boss's wishes. A man I do not know steps near to me and seeming not to approve, says without a trace of humour, "Do you know what the hell you're doing?"
"Yes," is all I say, as he departs. I am motionless as tears come, which I blink away.
I am weak; susceptible; defenseless. I am in love with a boy at school who now despises me and the world is no longer right for me and I am not right for the world.
Writers' Open Mic Night - April 20th -
5 hours ago