Email Poem

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Poem

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.

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