I'll hit my head once, twice, three times, maybe four. Let's go for five. Let's hit my thighs, how about... six times, what the heck! Why not seven? Here comes some more hits to the ol' noggin of mine! Silly old me, Panic attack number one.
You don't talk to me for two days. You think that I'm fine. You know I'm really not. You know something's wrong, you just don't care enough to try to find out. When I'm crying on your chest, begging to be held, begging to know you care, you just stare off in the distance like I don't even exist. I'm bawling now. Quietly, silently. You can't hear me, but you don't need to. You see the tears rolling down my cheeks, you see the pain in my eyes as you lift my head up to meet your line of sight. I close my eyes, hoping if I can't see you, you can't see me, I was wrong-Again. Panic attack number two.
YOU ARE READING
Hazy Nights
Teen FictionSpring had lost everything she had ever worked for. These are her daily entries from her journal that she had begun writing inside of in early January of 2015 - September 2015.
