Young

Tearing up journal pages. Then cleaning my room to feel better. Organizing my closet. I hate my clothes, but I hate everything, anyway. When I was young and depressed. It all made sense to me. Crying in my room as I dust and vacuum. Because my mom would walk in and tell me how good I was today. How everything is spotless and perfect in this world. When I was young and depressed. When I was young and- I cried a lot. I never made mistakes. Then I did and lied about it. Then I cried more. I would keep a journal. I wish I kept those journals. They were filled with lies.