Out of boredom,
I open up an old novel I was writing at the age of 13.

I remember thinking I was a brilliant writer,
This book is publishing material.

I read it today and
Cringe
At
Every
Word.

Filled with teenage angst, raging hormones and everything in between.

Why did I think this passed,
For writing?!

Well at least I improved.
But I don't like the fact that,
In few years,
I will cringe at writing I did today.

Hell,
I was reading a poem I wrote last year,
It became trending,
And I think "how?"
Is this even worthy for a like?

Well, I can say I grew.

I told her everything. About the boy who made my stomach hurt every morning before kindergarten. About the pictures I found on my brothers computer. I told her about the stain I left on our brand new counters and how i often felt that was my only place in that home. Being the stain. I told her about the dreams and the thoughts and the actions that were soon to come. I told her more than I wanted. And the time is coming where the stain will fade. And all it will be is a giant outline of where I was. But the stain will fade. And the pain will pass. And you'll be grateful that it's over.

I don't know what's wrong.
I can't eat. Sleep doesn't come easy either.
Maybe I miss you, and maybe I regret you.
I don't know if I'll ever know which.
Everyone tells me to hold on
Surely the storm won't last forever.
I feel hungover
My thoughts are blurred. Bored.
But one thing rings clear.
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to do this.
I'm back into my old ways of thinking.
I want it all to end.
Not for lack of life, but lack of enjoyment.
I don't pray for the end
But if it came, I might greet it with a smile.