8:52 a.m. (An autobiography of 16 years)
It’s July and my existence has been sixteen years of saying sorry before I speak. I’ve spent too many summer nights staying up late talking to boys that were staying up for other girls. I leave without saying goodbye. I’m in the middle of four different books. I can’t finish things.
I leave the shower with shampoo in my hair. I leave my keys in the lock. I say thank you when people say I love you. When people like me, I want to ask them why.
I’m sixteen and I’m too young to be worrying that no one will fall in love with me. I’m sixteen and I’ve spent a year in recovery figuring out that I don’t actually want to die because turning into a ghost won’t solve all my problems.
I never wanted to die, I just wanted to escape. So I tightened my fists, toughened my skin, took a deep breath and went straight through the storm to the other side.
Flash forward two months, I’ll be seventeen. I will no longer apologize for existing. I’ll be seventeen and it’s about time I told you, I’m not sad anymore.
The thing they forget to tell you about storms is that even though you can’t see sunlight for miles, it’s still sunny somewhere else in the world.
do you ever get anxiety bc your room is so messy but ur just too damn lazy to clean it
You’ve been blogging for a while. Let’s stretch your necks!
Now to the right…
And back to your right.
Feel the burn.
And now one last time, you can do it…
And now the right again.
We looked at each other a little too long to be ‘just friends’.
Writing isn’t the same as speaking, I struggle with conversation