if my walls could talk

If my walls could talk, they only talk about me-my first fashion show I had when I was 8, my crush when I was 10, my first tears of betrayal when I was 11, when I drawn my first bloodshed by a razor, every time I ate to get rid of my pain, every time I cried myself to sleep, and every time I wrote about pain and suffering because that's all I ever felt-they'll never stop talking. All of my writings are on the wall, and no one ever speaks about them. To forever be pushed aside and buried. Just like me.

My collection of stories that was on my walls. Every moment of despair, betrayal, embarrassment, anger, desire, and hope that was written and forgotten about. With each word now being shown the light and now finally released from its prison. My words were my only solace, my only way to release the pain that consumed me. But now, as they are brought into the light, I feel a sense of exposure and vulnerability. Will anyone truly understand the depths of my suffering, or will they simply glance over my words and move on? I am like my stories, buried and forgotten, waiting to be acknowledged and understood. I am waiting for someone to see me for who I truly am. Can you see me?