I looked down at the round characters I had written with certainty. Funny how I could write something with so much confidence, but crumble once I had to say it out loud. With writing, I could always erase. I could always take it back. I could always undo. 

I could hide behind my writing. I could use it to escape reality, a reality where I had to talk and would be made fun of from doing so. Kids ridiculing my pronunciation, and adults too. I know I could never wield my words cleverly enough if they came from my mouth. They would come out, eventually, after awkward pauses, but they would not be the lead performers. The stars, instead, would be the orchestra of uhs, uhms, ahs, and awkward pauses, accompanied by a red face and stutters. I could never win them over by talking

Instead, I could ingrain them into their heads with a marker. A permanent one. They could cross it out if they wanted to. But the message will be there, regardless of being hidden under their desperate attempts to forget it.

I guess that applies to me, too. 

No matter how many times I try to cross myself out, I will be myself. What other people say to me, the struggles I've been through, and the battle I've fought, will always try to scribble me out.

But they can never erase me.