sunday morning.

Dear Moma Jane,

She’s this girl who’s confused, this girl who was once bruised. She became conscious to the fact that she’s actually desolated to everything around her, except maybe one person. She always considered herself necessary. But no, she isn’t. She thought she was the midpoint of everything. She saw herself as well-liked, but turns out that only she saw that. She became aware of other people around her, who had lives that didn’t comprise her. She felt like the most heartrending adolescent. No acquaintances in school, none whatsoever. Well, none genuine friends. Outside school, she saw familiar faces, heaps of them, but none, that was familiar with the actual-her. Oblivious to the world, to the verity that all and sundry have such abhorrence for her.

Please help her.