14 year old me,

Flicking through essays and reports,

Hiding from the bullies,

And,

The subsequent death threats,

A bit too obsessed with leprosy and Queens,

Dreaming that one day I would be something,

Too busy obsessed with a period,

That meant I would have died in my mother’s womb,

But,

Now at the age of 22,

I dedicated the start of my academic career,

To one Marguerite d’Anjou,

Just so I can make the depressed 14 year old me,

That didn’t believe they were going to be here,

Worth something,

Because,

They were too numb,

To realise that in the end,

All this someday would be worth it.