Late Bloomer

by Mazey Eddings

How am I supposed to be assertive when what I’d rather do is kindly ask this beautiful woman to choke me with those endlessly long legs?

Sometimes I hate myself. I hate my meekness and my boldness. I hate my fear and my audacity to try. Sometimes the hate digs its roots in so deep, it feels like it is me. I hate that hate. I have endless grace for everyone in the world, but none for myself. Why am I not allowed to make mistakes? Why does my compassion stretch to strangers but stop at my own front door?

“You have such a horrible way with words,” Olivia says, lip curled. “Some things need to stay inside thoughts.” Ophelia gives a haughty sniff. “Oh please. Twitter killed that concept almost two decades ago.”