That poor metaphor.

There was once a naive, hopeful girl living in the most light-filled and luxurious recesses of my mind. She believed in love, romance and magic. She had a dream that someday she’d have an outlet for her heartfelt beliefs and beautiful thoughts; someone to understand her, to listen, to share with.

Since coming with me to university, however, she’s lost heart. Her unfailing and at times foolish hope, the unwavering candle of faith, has been crushed and extinguished time and time again. Her beautiful optimism is long gone, that glimmer of trust she placed in every kind soul who offered her a cup of coffee and complimented her eyes has been proven wrong a couple hundred times.
   She’s been battered, bruised, kicked, tripped up, fucked hard and left crying on the pavement.

She believed in love and miracles, fortune and movie moments, until she met several significant individuals that very skilfully taught her otherwise.
   There was the boy who taught her not to hope, that relentless and incredible fucking for over a year does not necessarily mean love, or commitment, or anything but... That. There was the time she was whisked away on a romantic adventure which actually had nothing to do with romance. Then the time she was used as a means of transition; a pair of blue eyes to forget the brown, chubby legs to forget the skinny. Then she learnt the hard way that no matter how hard she tried to be everything to someone, she was utterly forgettable and easily replaced.

Poor metaphorical girl. Hopefully someday someone will come along and restore her faith. Until then, she’s in hiding and waiting for the all-clear.