Delicate things are pretty - cute, even,
but you are not delicate.
You are wild and lewd and unpredictable.
You are breathtaking.
You are beautiful.
An invitation. My, oh my, how thrilling. I have never before been to a birthday party, so this could be interesting. It takes me a moment to comprehend what a birthday party might be, but when I do - oh, the excitement!
The whole thought is just a bit confusing though, the what’s and how’s, the details of it all. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.
Somehow though, it seems to have all been taken care of, because on the big day, suddenly I am there. I’m not really too sure how, but I try not to think too hard on it. Beqanna has her mysterious ways, and I am certainly not one to question or judge them.
So, the big day, here and bold and exciting. And there I am, dressed in incredible finery fit for a… horse? That’s right, clothing for a horse. Just picture it. It is as lovely as you’re thinking. Flowing gowns and flowery headdresses and jingling bells tied into manes and tails. It’s perfect. I feel like a princess. A magical fairy princess.
But this is a party for a fairy after all, isn’t it?
Unfortunately things do not turn out quite all that. You see, there is something I failed to mention. I’m a bit of an oddity. I mean, there are many, many unique creatures out there, so, really, I’m just a bit unusual. Perhaps in a less, er, conventional way though. You see, I have a third eye. An eye, bold as you please, right there in the middle of my forehead.
This is a party! Everyone is supposed to be nice and have fun. But oh the names they call me. Freak. Monster. Cyclops. Cruel and hurtful things I can’t even bear to mention.
Why had I even come at all? I thought it would fun, the greatest time of my life. Instead I find myself tucked into an out of the way corner. Behind a row of tables bearing apple punch and delightful little carrot cakes. All delicious and lovely and perfect. All reminders of how this incredible day had turned out to be the worst experience of my life. Instead I cower, pretending not to notice the world, pretending not to notice the music that drifts by, bright and cheerful and far too happy for my mood. Instead I squeeze my three eyes shut, trying my best to hold the tears at bay and failing miserably.
And then, as I huddle there in the corner, lost in my misery, a new song begins a play. It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, I nearly laugh. How incredibly fitting. “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to. You would cry to if it happened to you.”
If only it had been my party. I would have kicked all those horrid bullies out.
Giohde