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MONDAY, JULY 04, 2011
 
I found my high school diary today. It was strange looking back indifferently on things that must have meant the world to me then. Here is a peek at my most secretive prize:


"I feel stupid for being bitter. I feel like I'm blowing things out of proportion. I feel like I have more in common with that pile of dust on your bedroom floor because you neglect us both. I tried so hard today not to loose it when I found a picture of my best friend in your wallet but not me. I wasn't even sure that I had the right to be upset because your explanation confused me." (age 16)

"It is december now. I haven't seen him for a while now. I went to a party to escape and I met someone. We went for a walk, even though it was raining and cold like it always is. We walked the dimly lit streets for hours and he held me close the whole time. I stayed warm in his big arms. We started seeing each other almost every day until he got in a car accident as soon as he had dropped me off. I felt like I shouldn't have let him drive me home since we were drinking. When I saw him next he had even more stitches after getting in a fight. Even though he is such a brute, the way he holds me makes the rough exterior melt away.
Christmas was awful... my ex picked me up from my new boys house and took me back. He tried to kill himself that night. I broke is belt buckle trying to stop him from jumping. I felt so helpless. I called my boy and told him that I couldn't see him anymore, because I didn't want to hurt anybody. But I hurt them both. I couldn't do it. I ran back to those big arms and charming eyes. New Years we kissed and the world faded away. Nobody has ever beat that New Years kiss." (age 18)

"He pushed me." (age 18)

"They write me poems.
1: she ripped out my heart....
2: it was good while it lasted, even though u broke my heart beyond repair...
3: angel from the heavens, the world is dough in your fingers... 'hard' is getting over you.


"Bruises. For whatever reason I end up with bruises. Writing is such a melodramatic thing when you stamp the label "diary" on the cover. Listen to me! I hate writing about boys and the trivial pain they have caused. I don't regret anything except maybe leaving a footprint on your back when I used you to boost me up and keep climbing higher. I'm sorry, but I've washed your tee-shirts enough times to know that the dust will come out."


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