I have been forgetting of this journal altogether as seeing my feelings here after I read them, makes me feel overwhelmed and sick and unsettled. But it's now three forty-six am and I cannot sleep.
I can hear spring attempting to bloom shyly but at the last minute, retracting just outside my window. I can also hear her ghost on my street and I know she wants me come out but I won't. Last time I had, she had tried speak to me and I was afraid she would tell me it was my fault. My fault. My fault. She opened her lips and even though some flurries were coming down on my bare feet and
unmanageable hair, all I could feel was guilt twisting sharply like a knife, a knife, a knife.
Is that true? Is it my fucking fault? I want to know and I want stop wetting these pages with my tears because it smears the ink.
YOU ARE READING
dreamland
Teen Fictionabout a girl trying to move on from the past, only to find that the past can move too. all artwork by namalas.
