I used to write poetry and songs and little passages when I wasn’t really feeling all that great about everything in my life. I have diary upon diary filled with messages and photos and sketches and ideas. Ideas of where I thought I would be and who I thought I would be with. I found them in my wardrobe this afternoon and sat down to read them with the hope that maybe it would show me just how far I have come. And they did.
Every entry in them is sad. Every journal entry up until last year is sad and depressing. The sort of thing that would worry someone to read. The sort of thing you want to set fire to just so you can hide those thoughts. I can’t believe I would ever allow myself to think those things never mind write them down.
I often said sorry when I really should have been saying goodbye,
You were supposed to love me but instead you taught my demons to swim,
I can’t even drown them in my sorrow anymore.