(this one contains some adult language)
Dear Diary.
I don’t think I ever took good care of you. I smoked cigarettes, and your pages were always burned on the edges.
Sometimes my words fell out of me, out of my mouth, loose teeth, and rocks down a hill, bones shattering under a moving car.
I did not take care of you.
All of you, your flayed skin, you are bound dead trees holding everything I am. I created you and then ignored you. You are the closest thing to children I will ever have. I don’t know this yet. I am 20 years from knowing it.
My mother put her fingers inside you, flipped your pages, read, loved, hated, and fucked all of my words. She scrawled on the last page I had written. “You are an ungrateful little bitch.’
On the next page I wrote the word cunt. I underlined it in blue pen. I hate blue pen.
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