3 August, 2024, Saturday, 12:28pm
—Broken glasses, torn letters.
I sit and stare at my diary,
Pages filled with my old misery,
I skim my fingers through the pages,
Tearing up at my regular rages,
There once sat a little girl;
To which belonged this old diary,
She'd write and write and write and write,
About her struggles which seemed so easy,
Though they left her feeling completely uneasy,
I'm deeply ashamed of myself,
Now that there are no new pages,
For I was the reason she left in mazes,
Tearing up for her now is a waste,
For that she is never coming back,
Waste is to let myself heave,
For a me that was never meant to leave
