I used to be a baby, I swear it. 
Not literally, but the term that can go hand-in-hand with a wuss or a pansy, except that, too, can be thought of in different terms. Compare it.
English is great. And takes up all my time.
It's beautiful but never the same. 
Everchanging with time.

I was a crybaby. I always had to be a Meme's and Papa's girl.
I loved nature and cats. I loved hats (that rhymed!) I loved fruits and insects and reading.
I hated tomatoes and still do (not for raw eating).
I wanted to be like Fergie and Britney Spears.
I wanted to be a ballerina or a singer.
I was destined to find my fate, I swore it, too.

As a teen, I was "emo", but that - back then - was a phase.
I had an ego, I was a , I was defiant.
I always had a phase.
I had a disease and I wanted to feel awesome.
I was grasping so hard to my normalcy of life that I overdid it all.
I was the blossoming bud that didn't want to blossom at all.

I grew from 12/13 to 17, and I swear it seems only yesterday that little me peed pants learning to ride a bike with Lori;
it was yesterday I cried because my friends a week ago were being so deceitful, abhorring and rude with implications.
I cried to myself, with my best friend wanting to hit them all back a few spaces. I wish that wasn't true.
It was back then that I only saw Death on rare occassions, when It took a loved animal or a relative I didn't know;
seven years ago it took my true father, and within just a month of 2015, I wished it would take me every moment since the clock ticked zero, zero, zero.
It was then that I laughed until I couldn't breathe.
It was then that social anxiety wasn't a thing.
It was then that I never cheated nor lied.
It was then I was an innocent "me". I was fine.

It is now that I laugh when alone.
It is now that social anxiety is everything.
It is now that I cheat and lie constantly as if it's not in my control.
It is now that I'm not that innocent me. I'm not fine, truthfully.

When I was little, mental illness wasn't known to me.
I only knew disease and wrecks and hurt.
Scraped knees and splinters and then that awful strain. Please...
Six years later, I'd wish I could hang a noose around my throat. I'd do anything to be back to little me.

Would little me understand my ache?
Would little me understand the backstabbing, the lies?
Would little me want bigger me to stand up and scream?
How could I then; back then, standing up just wasn't me.
But little me wouldn't wish death.
Little me couldn't pull the trigger and not go home.
Little me loved her kitties and Meme and Papa. But bigger me is just an empty hole. 

On rare occassions, I wish I could just simply go back and hug myself then;
I'd also wish I'd stop my mother from meeting my father.
She'd be different, he'd feel better, and I'd be someone else who is wrong.
But little me would cry to know that big me looks at death so kind.
Little me wouldn't understand herself not wanting her Daddy by her side. 
Little me, I'm sorry that I grew up to be such a damned, crazyass.
Little me, I'm sorry that I put me through distress.
Little me, you didn't know it, but you'd face Hell and would face it alone.
Little me, I'm so sorry for all that's caused me pain.
Thanks to fate and life and childhood friends you daily had seen... now they're causing you extreme hate.
But, little me, listen... i know you'll enjoy life well.
I think We grew up too fast and without warning and it was destined to end in Hell.
And I'm sorry you disappeared so early, I'm sorry Papa died,
I'm sorry life hit you hard.
But trust me, if I could meet you, I wouldn't worry.
You and I share the same old, loving and knowing heart.