Once upon a time, there was a storybook of haunted tales. And, once upon a time, I was in that haunted book.
But I reached the last chapter, and put it down, sending it far away for another day to read. But that day was supposed to be decades away, so many decades that the haunted tales wouldn't matter any longer.
But with prying eyes, and overwhelming curiosity, that damned book was opened yet again— opened to be read, and not from my own words, but from the words of others.
And thus, it followed me. As it seems it always will. It haunts me, tears me up from the inside out, throws my mind spinning in a disaster of self-loathing and regret.
It's time to make a new book; a book of fairy tales, self-development, and ever-growing friendship that exceed past trial and error. But even as I put pen to paper, beginning that new chapter, the haunted book always looms over my shoulder, causing my hand to shake, and tainting the pages what was supposed to be a whole new story.
YOU ARE READING
Unprofessional Poems
PoetryJust poems that were written by a teenager who does really know what she's doing. Please read. I promise they're not terrible- just unprofessional, and sometimes kind of angsty.
