January 24, 2013 (Age 15)
Dear diary,
Im a little all over the place.
I drink vodka in a sprite bottle,
the flow seemingly never-ending.
Its 8:32 am as I write this.
Im a little more than tipsy.
A boy is laying next to me,
his brown locks sprawled out across the pillow.
Hes rather beautiful.
Its a shame he will never be into me;
someone so broken,
so heartless,
so hopeless.
Im scribbling these words down,
as I scramble to get dressed.
I just arrived home,
and I can only recall bits and pieces.
I had ran from his home,
hoping his parents slept soundly.
People stared as I walked home,
their curious glances following my every move.
I could hear their harmful whispers;
through one ear and out the other.
I am learning quickly that words,
they are meaningless.
If people are so quick to throw around:
"I love you" and cheat,
"I care for you" and break a heart,
then why should I let their words,
composed mostly of broken glass,
pierce me?
-Fuck their words, Elle.
YOU ARE READING
the diary of a teenage whore
Poetrya girl who told them all it was okay to leave, but cried when they left. ☆ amazing cover by @amethystnebula ☆
