Me.

You don’t know me.

My name is Amanda. I’m 19 and a Cancer. My favorite color is indigo.

You know these things. But you’ve never met me.

My cat was named Gumby. I love Godzilla movies and salty popcorn.

You see a shell, an outward projection of an insecure mind.

My father died when I was eleven, and his name was Greig.

Information spills forth from its robotic lips, twisted into sugar-coated bedtime stories.

I tried to kill myself last year. I have an allergy to onions and corn syrup.

You’ve never seen the real me, the chaos within.

I don’t get on with my mother. My teeth are sensitive.

What would you think if you met me?

I’m obsessed with Star Wars. I want a tiny angel wing tattooed on my shoulder.

Would you recognize me if my face was different, but not my heart?

I don’t like how my voice sounds. My baby toe is bigger than the one next to it.

Can you name three things that I love or hate?

I’m not afraid to wear pink. I like toe socks.

It’s not easy to be something you’re not.

My middle name is Gayle, and I have a Godmother.

You don’t know me.

I want to walk on Mars someday.

You know all about me. But you’ve never met the real me.