Poesía

January 21st, 2018

{double update because i forgot to post yesterday}

Dear Diary,
          Ashton asked for me to come to the poem reading again. I don't know why he's suddenly trying to make my go out. Is it not enough that I'm writing in this fucking journal? My old therapist said that I had to take baby steps in order to get back to where I should be, and although I didn't believe in that anymore, Ashton did. But he wasn't sticking to it I guess.
I hadn't been outside in a while, and I'm not gonna lie; I miss the sun. I miss the warmth on my skin and the dewy air in the morning. I missed the smell of rain and I missed going to the cafe down the street to drink a vanilla chai tea. That was my favorite tea. Only Ashton knows that. Sometimes I do think that I should go outside, but then I don't. It's too hard. I can barely get out of bed and shower, so what makes myself think I can go more than a couple steps out my room? It's an unrealistic dream, but Ashton obviously begs to differ.
Maybe one day he'll realize how much of a lost cause I am. I already lost hope on myself. Why can he do the same?

That's it,
Michael