The Second Entry.

 

Entry 2. 

                                                 Photographed & Short Story By: Drusilla U. 

Late Bloomer.

07/17/25

The Late Bloomer.

That’s the word alright. Somehow as I sit in this skating rink for the very first time in my life, stilled by the fear coursing through my veins, immense sadness overtakes me. I watch children as young as five skate wildly, defying fear, slipping and falling with wide grins spread across their youthful faces. 

I just think to myself: “Survival of the fittest.”

Natural selection?

Here at eighteen I cling to the wall fearfully, those around me bursting into an airy and easygoing laughter as I (terrified) smile in return. Why don’t I feel alive? I wish I had been a carefree child, scratching up my knees, bloody, and wild. I would’ve died an early death had I been so carefree. Tried to swim alone at seven - almost drowned. I feel so behind. Physically. It’s never bothered me before, I wonder what makes it feel so wrong now? I can’t swim, nor ride a bike, heaven forbid I rollerblade or skate. Nothing at all. But my body handles bruises and beatings well, punch me twice and I’ll get back up with a smile and flame lit inside me. That. That is the most familiar feeling to me. 

Yet, Nevertheless

Still. A Late Bloomer.

No kiss, no date, no nothing. I’m nearly eighteen yet still twelve. I feel like currently I am trying to squeeze eight years of a life I missed out on in the time span of two measly months. Is it pathetic? Brave? Impulsive? I fear I know not what to name it. All I recall is being twelve and skating on ice for the first time as I stand in this skating rink. The memory is so clear and near. I’m twelve again as I stand here in the body of an eighteen year old confused girl. Fuck. Have I always been twelve? Stuck in time. I wonder. 

I’m scared, truthfully.

I have to admit it to myself. 

I’m terrified.

Fucking.

Terrified.

I’m growing up backwards. It sounds forbidden to admit.

But I have always lived life afraid that I can’t physically feel any longer.

I’m unattached to life. This life.

I use emotions to remind myself I am in fact alive.

I am attached to my emotions, my feelings, sometimes it’s the only thing that feels real to me.

...

You are The Star.

The Fucking Star. 

A thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

Flaming.

Skin-meltingly-fucking-hot.

Dashing violently through the sky.

Leaving fire wherever you go.