My mom noticed the scars on my wrist. Telling her that I want to keep them wasn't a good choice. Those wprds were met with "Why would you want to keep them? No! You are not keeping them!" In my head, my scars are beautiful. They are visible stories. Stories of someone brave enough to keep going, brave enough to hold on tight. But the reality is is that I will never get to be myself. My mother is going to live my life for me. Just as well. It isn't really my life anyways so I might as well just except I'm insane. She isn't really bad, and anything bad that happens is my fault, never hers. I want to dye my hair blue. Wear studded leather jackets, (maybe cut my hair). I'm so sick of just be being a number in the school system. A kid nobody knows about. I'm sick of every single day being a dull routine of pain and boredom. I hate being asked why I'm clingy. Chasing people who dont love me as much as I love them is useless. Just like me.
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Daily Writings
NouvellesSimilar to a diary. Full of short stories, emotions, hopes and dreams, imaginary worlds, friends I wish I had, and strange facts about me. Would you write with me?
