Dear Diary

A book of secrets, but I know that it may not keep them. Pink and fuzzy once, but now worn, Bare Sickly Diseased. Running black down paper-white cheeks, The eyes of an eight year old girl Stripped of her innocence. Dear Diary: I am afraid. I am afraid of having to plaster on a smile everyday. I am afraid of the words people throw at me, like stones meant to break bone and bruise flesh. Dear Diary: He is back again today. Sometimes, I imagine he is nothing more than a monster from my nightmares, that one day I will wake up and it will never have happened. Dear Diary: They were right about me. I am nothing more than what they say. I am made of ugly words and ugly skin and ugly ugly tears. There is nothing now it seems, other than the words, and my fear. Dear Diary: I want to die. I am 11 years old, and I want to die. What is wrong with me? Dear Diary: I do not have the courage to talk to my mother. I have tried, but lately it seems like I will just be ignored, the pleading of my lips and tongue completely forgotten. I look at all these happy people, and I can’t help but to wonder if they’re lying to each other too. Just like me. A book of secrets, but I know I can no longer keep them. Pink and fuzzy once, but now burned, Flames licking My past As I am finally reborn after so long.