They say you're smart. Your first grade teacher calls you a genius. You feel thrilled because finally, finally, someone who doesn't immediately wait for the next achievement, someone who doesn't threaten disownment over failure. You meet her again 10 years later. You're still her genius.
It is no longer a compliment, it falls like a curse. You spend your childhood decorated in choking ribbons and leaded trophies, but you don't feel pretty, you just feel used. You remember every moment. You remember longing for friends but finding none. You remember a desperation to please when you finally do. You find yourself asking "What if I'm not enough?”. You never are. Then you're up till sunrise because the world is crumbling and you are not enough and never will be and you have no-one. Sometimes you pick up a pen and write, but never in the first tense, never, too personal, You wanted to burn like Icarus. but You faded like Cassandra.