My name is F. 

 

I’m just another girl, one of those you can meet anywhere. I’m nothing special, I’m not gifted, I’m no one. I am one in a million, but I’m alone. I don’t fit in this world. Every piece of my body cries tears of blood. Every day of my life is a self-inflicted punishment. It’s really hard to love me, to understand me. My heart is full of love, but nobody wants it.

And yet I understand each one of you. I know exactly what you want. I know who you are. I stand here, crying by your side. I am the shoulder, I am the arms, I am a mouth and a vagina. I am the vessel you like to fill. Many of you dragged me down, raped me, took everything from me. Or maybe I gave everything, expecting nothing in return. Oh wait… To speak the truth, I can’t stop thinking : « Did anyone ever ask me for anything ? » No one asks for sure, because I’m the wrong girl, I thrive on chaos. But I keep on answering.

I’m so good at making my life a fucking living hell. I can also make pictures well. Pictures talk better than me. They cure, they sublime. They make the ugly looks gorgeous. They are my one aim in life, in which every trauma is a treasure. I often see myself covered in coal, mining for some new drama to exploit, blinded by hints of bright gold if I dig deep enough. In this underworld I can become who I want to be. I can be a queen, wearing my sparkling cracks around my neck. Or maybe an astronaut, floating in space among my twinkling failures.

My name is F, and I have a borderline personality disorder. This is my fairytale.