My life is hard for me to picture. For me, it's like looking through a horribly written book. On the first few pages is my past. The growing up in a family of five children and one parent.
On the next few pages is my present. The story about me trying to hold on to being a child and trying to take that next step into womanhood.
On the last few pages, there is nothing; they are all blank. This is my future. I will never know what it is until it comes.
And on the cover of this terrible book, is a face.
My face. The young face of an eight year old.
The chin length ginger hair, the never-ending ginger freckles which storm my face, and the ginger eyes staring back at me curiously.