Be patient. For what was written for you was written by the greatest of Writers.
by the time you are eight, you are not fully yourself. half your mannerisms, your actions, are your parents, the other half your friends. you play the games handed down by the older girls. you copy them, you copy their dances and songs, you copy.
by the time you are eleven, you braid, your comb, you wash your own hair. you ask your mother to let you pierce your ears, your nose, your heart. you ignore your culture. you strive for the beauty you see in the world around you. you try and style your hair. you injure your feet slipping them into heels. you injure your heart slipping into roles. you are hurt, you are hurt, you are hurt.
by the time you are thirteen, your heart is aching. you have beaten your skin, until it is thin and pale. around your waist is blooming purple flowers, and your fingers have been whittled back to the bone, becoming thin and long, the way they should be. you are constantly lighting matches and setting your hair on fire, your clothes on fire, your skin on fire, just so you can douse yourself in the fire extinguisher.
by the time you are fifteen, you have fallen in and out of love with so many things for such a young heart. with the world. with love and with hate. you have fallen in and out of love with him and her. you have been aching for so long, everything hurts.
by the time you are seventeen, you are far too young. you are far too young for decisions and choices and life and every single thing. sometimes you think you are too young for love. too long for hate.
by the time you are nineteen, you have decided your life does not go as planned. you are made like a mosaic. him and her are large pieces of you - limbs, or a head. your friends are your strands of hair - your primary school ones anyway. your new friends, your good friends make up your hand and your feet. you think you have grown closer to your family. they make up your heart. but at the end of the day, you are still struggling, fighting to figure out who you are." — by the time you are twenty one, only one thing waits (via queenhijab)
going to college like