Grown men always look like children at their father's funeral. Grown women only look old and weary, warn by age and wisdom--because they know things, they know the feeling, the emotion, the regret and guilt, they know the experience and understand its necessity.
Perhaps this is a generalization. Perhaps this is the sad stereotypical truth. But, simply, this is an observation. An observation taken from my slice of knowledge, colored in by what I have seen. And what I have seen will always be smaller to what you have seen. Or at least, in your eyes it will be. I am a child. A kid. Not in body but in soul. A silly little girl who's so afraid of life that she doesn't live it. You scoff and say you don't need me and that it's lame to think that way.
But I don't care. Because I need you. Whether this is reciprocated or not, doesn't matter. I'm being selfish, I suppose. Taking what I can of you and not caring if it's mine to take. But I'm a child, right? A little brat, reaching out with dirty hands for something new, uncertain--yes--but too greedy to care. And I'm telling you now: I'm not going to get through this without a few temper tantrums. There will be tears and unreasonable accusations. You will get annoyed with me, probably wish you've never met me, that you can back out now but never doing so (and I will secretly hope that you can't because you need me as much as I need you, but you would never tell me that--thus the secret hope). But when it comes down to it . . . all that matters is that you love me--in any way you wish, just as long as it's love.