DEAR LITTLE BIRDY,
It's been one week...I couldn't get myself to stop writing in this book, so I decided to continue writing to you, as if you're still here...
Even though you aren't. It makes me feel a lot better.
I pretend though. Because that's what insane people do right? Talk to no one.
The pages are wrinkled out, splogges of ink infesting its corners almost like a disease.
I have seen no need in keeping this book well though. It almost represents my current emotions.
But still I write.
I've tried to forget about you, and then I laugh histerically at myself for being so...stupid. I'm crying over something useless. Most girls my age are crying about their complicated boyfriends, or how they don't know what they're going to wear to the 'Graduation after Party' (which is three weeks away now).
I don't think I'll go.
Am I really normal? I don't think I am.
Maybe I never have been. Maybe you made me this way...
Maybe you've never been real at all.
Lucy x
