Dear Diary...
Penmanship strong, with bold
fluid strokes, she began to unravel her mind.
Help me to let go.
Her eyes began to widen at her
own words. As she bit her lip, a twang of copper slid to her tongue
and brought more from deep within her. Hunched in her dark bedroom,
she continued her increasingly wavering teenage scrawl.
Most people can say they fear
spiders, clowns... Death. Her
fingers started to twitch, her emotions starting to boil over deep
within her chest. The raging current swallowing her heart and
creating such intense pressure that it started to cloud her eyes.
From what I gather, people
that fear these things try to fight against them. They throw shoes at
the spiders, shield their eyes from the clown and deny death. Already
taken by these short sentences, her throat began to close in on
itself, but it was too late to stop. She pressed her pen harder to
the paper, ingraining the black words against the pages to come.
So then why am I treated as
if I am to be feared? The looks of disgust...
Her lips tightened, cheeks straining against the salty rivers that
bled from her eyes.
The looks of fear...
Her pen scratched noisily over the sharpness of her lettering, the
outside world blanketed in black as her body fought against this
moment long coming.
I am human. So why are shoes
thrown at me? Gazes turned away from this living person as she is
backed into a corner? Denying her existence.
The gates broken, her chest heaves a shaky breath.
Is it because I’m not a
bottle blonde? That my lips aren't graced with pink gloss; I don't
wear high heels and short skirts? Placing myself on this show case
display, with a personality as transparent as the glass surrounding
me?
Something snapped within her, a
squeak dragging along her throat as she suppresses a little more. A
realization dawning upon her, she lets go, a loud and shrill curse
spewing from her lungs. Her body convulses as if throwing the
negativity from her heart and up out her mouth.
Thrown from her concentration,
she gazes lightly around her room, which is blanketed in navy blue.
It's a surprise she can even see the ink to begin with. But the
coldness of it all only drew her closer inside, reaching deep into
her subconscious and grasps onto a slippery, dripping black mass. Yet
it is so heavy.
She turns back to the pages, to
bleed the negativity onto the pages. To free herself.
For so many years, ever since
I was a little girl, it only seems to continue. I know they won't
stop. Drops of water
pattered against the pages, bordering the words I
am Human.
I'm so lonely, so tired. But
I won't let them win. If they win, they are right. And I know that
they aren't! I wont be a part of this game ANYMORE. With
a flourish of ink she then threw the small hard cover book across the
room, a cry breaking from her heart. The black mass rupturing and
tearing open, she pulled her legs in, and hid her face within them as
the sobs coursed through her body.
The book thundering against the
wall before dropping to the floor pages up.