In a complex sense, 

life is an entangled novel of occurrences.

Each day is a catalyst towards another undefinable aspect,

and because I am still so young, I have only leafed through my pages up to the preface,

And these beginnings are what have come to characterize me as my book’s protagonist,

And through all of the upheaval and wicked plot twists,

and after the compendium of metaphors that life has tossed into my plot,

I have realized that…

I am defined by what I am not.

My storyline has made me vulnerable,

but vulnerability is a beautiful conflict in almost every fairytale,

For, vulnerability is the foundation of strength,

In order to understand what it means to be strong, a character must first be exemplified as weak.

Strength is gained.

And so this is why, in my tale,

I am not the hands of the intoxicated boy who pushed me onto a bed and held me down against crisp, white, solemn sheets until I kissed him.

I am not the resultant of the notebook filled with songs by a different boy who planned to rape me.

I am not the gossip.

I am not the seas of downhearted tears causing hurricanes upon my pillowcase.

I am not my PTSD.

I am not my past.

But, I am the outcome of these situations,

I am the sum of the strength needed to overcome each one,

I am defined as the commencement of a new chapter,

I am the flipping past these pages,

I am the build-up to my climax,

I am the author of my novel,

and no matter the bumps in the road or the typos in my text, 

I find optimistic influences and inspiration emerging at every corner,

I discover happiness within those who mean the word to me, 

I am not giving up,

I am not an unfinished anecdote,

I am not my trepidation,

I am defined by what I am not, and I am okay with this,

for the best books are never uncomplicated.

Complications make for a good read.