Purple Socks

It’s funny how when my life seems to be shattering I remember the dumbest things. The putrid smell of Urine and orange juice; the blaring sound of Mr. Brightside; the comforting taste my mom’s chicken noodle soup; waking up and putting on purple socks; and the slap of my bare hands against hard ice. But that’s what heartbreak is for me. It’s real. It has substance. It’s more than just a feeling. It’s an experience. The experience may have been hard and painful, but I came out of it stronger. I was able to move on to a new better experience, with new memories. I became a better person. I’m no longer a lonely, naïve ten year old. I’m not a self centered, unsure fifteen year old. The confused, insecure seventeen year old is gone too. I’m a strong, independent, eighteen and a half year old girl who knows her purpose, but it’s because of heartbreak that I am that person. It’s because of African children and dumb boys. It’s because of terrible illnesses and loneliness. And it’s because of things like chicken noodle soup and purple socks.

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