I scare myself I laugh at the silence I cry myself to sleep I scream at nothing I cut so deep I dance when in pain I prefer the rain I believe happiness is fake I don't really like cake I prefer life to be sour I can't be optimistic I love expecting the worst I think I enjoy being hurt I have so many secrets I sometimes give them to the world I hate this game I'm not me I act like someone else I'm only me around him I should move on I hate being in love I refuse to end charades I will write my life away
25 May 2014 (eighth grade year) My how I have grown up. I am such a proudly different person than I was back then. That wasn't love; it was infatuation. That wasn't masochism; that was abuse. That wasn't real. How do I not remember that little girl of 14