I know you’re trying to break me. Every time I bend, you hit harder. I know your happiness depends on my sadness. Your victory is my tragedy. And you think that I don’t know. That I am in some flowery world where naive is all I am. So let me tell you this:
Come at me. Hit me as hard as you possibly can. Go back and train for days and return to hit me even harder. Read all of my diary entries since kindergarten and target every vulnerability you read in between the lines.
Take away my love, strip me of my looks. Destroy my eyesight, burn my hopes.
Do what you need to do in order to feel victorious, but know that my definition of victory is different than yours. My pain tolerance is stronger than yours. My heart has been broken more times than yours, and has come back stronger every single damn time.
You want to fight this fight with me now? I’ve been fighting it since I was 12 fucking years old.
You can destroy this physical body all you want, but this isn’t my forever. That alone gives me up the upper hand.
I will win.