Bitter Highschool Hearts

I’m sweet again. Like I was when I turned sixteen.

My mother had ordered a custom-made birthday cake shaped like a book, with a little wavy line turning into a heartbeat monitored in the hospital. It’s like voluntarily skipping a precious heartbeat to dance with the waves — being cautious enough not to involuntarily breathe in the ocean. I cared about my life and had no reason not to.

Carefully dried on the top layer of the cake was black frosting that read, “Do what makes your soul happy.” I had hoped the writing would be in calligraphy, because I felt that the simple handwriting mirrored my imperfections…

I knew you weren’t coming. But deep down, I hoped my letters would have been prettier for you. You came to me and turned down the invitation. If you did love me, you had the opportunity to say it to my face. If you didn’t — yet again. Instead, you led me on. You gave me presents, but you couldn’t be there for my birthday party. I once came across something: “If they truly love you, you will know.” But I don’t know what I don’t know, do I, sweetheart?

Truly, it doesn’t matter. But deep down, I wish I could be what the fancy dashes, embellished uppercase, and delicate curves represent:

Someone not polluted by fury that you couldn’t make the last mile.
A person who wasn’t disappointed you turned down the invitation.
Not shaken by your rejection, nor afraid of its connotation.
A girl good enough.
A girl deserving of you.