You Don't Know Me.

You may think you know me.

You might have some preconceived notion of who I am, a rough sketch of my essence derived from the way I dress, that "dirty look" I shot you once in the hall, my Twitter feed, the people I'm friends with, the gossip you've heard from the girl who sits behind you in English.

You may believe that you've got me figured out.

You may think you know me.

But allow me to let you in on a little secret-

You don't.

You don't know that I always double knot my shoelaces and that I have to set five alarms in the morning to pull myself out of bed.

You don't know that sometimes I lie and say I'm busy on a Friday night when I'm really just curled up in the corner of my room, reading that book I've been meaning to read for who knows how long.

You don't know that the first time I tried coffee I pretended to enjoy it while desperately trying not to grimace because it tasted so, so bitter.

You don't know that I think in expletives and I swear far more than any respectable young woman should. (And neither does my mom.)

You don't know that the reason I try so hard in school is because I'm banking on it being my ticket out of here.

You don't that some of my best friends are the novels on my shelf, because they're the only steadfast things in my life.

You don't know that music is the needle and thread that holds me together when I'm falling apart.

You don't know that my confidence is as miniscule as the freckle on the back of my hand.

You don't know that sometimes I actually don't agree with you, but I keep my mouth closed and my opinions locked and hidden in the back of mind, because I just want you to be happy.

You don't know about my crushing fear of inadequacy that keeps me up late into the night and permeates my every thought and action.

You don't know that sometime I wish that I was born a robot, because then I wouldn't give a damn about what people think.

You don't know that every time you ask me why I never cry, I can't help but think of the wretched nights spent in my bedroom, tears flowing freely in the hope that salty water can heal the jagged, gaping wounds inflicted by you.

You don't know that I'm scared to die, maybe because death's the only thing we've never tried.

You don't know my hopes.

My dreams.

My fears.

You don't know me.

You don't know me.
 
But maybe you will.

Sincerely,

Celeste Cobain