steel. eight. cb2.

I'm anything but my namesake, save for the idea that I probably could be molded into any which way if I let it happen. A quiet girl of sixteen, keeping to herself and way too in my feelings half the time. I think my parents were hoping for strength when they named me but I've got all the physical strength of a wet dish rag - and let's not get started on the emotional side. The couch is comfortable when the outside is so awful, holding my breath and shedding a tear of relief when they don't call my name each year. Lord knows what might happen if they actually say it - I'll probably pass out, or sob, vomit, perhaps all three. I can be happy, some days. I really do try to laugh - Mom's quite funny, so I giggle into my tomato soup at the dinner table or crack a genuine smile when she buys me cheesecake on my birthday and it tastes like heaven. I like to tell myself we can't all be heroes, that being soft isn't a weakness, but who am I fooling? Not my friends, not my Mom, and certainly not myself.