Control

I don't know why people, especially boys, want to make me feel so small — or large, I suppose. People will say shitty things, probably because someone said shitty things to them. Or because they are unhappy with themselves. Or just because they're mean. Or wait, who cares? Usually those shitty things have nothing to do with me. Those boys, handsome or not, have no idea how much they've affected me. The world let alone this country, is too small to say that you'll never see someone ever again and when I do see them out, I smile, they smile. But my palms sweat, my heart races, and inside, I'm waiting for the bullying to start. And that's just the point. They don't know what's going on in my head. I don't know what's going on in theirs. They might not even remember my name. But still, I see them and I shut down. That's not their fault anymore. I let them get to me. These irrelevant people who need to shoot their mouths off to feed their ego off other people's stricken confidence.