• Sometimes I prefer violence. The bruises heal. The words stick though, they bring me down, they pound me out, the may me weary, tired, sad, depressed. They make me hate myself. They make me want to believe them. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me. That's quite a lie. Words seem to stick to me more than anything. Whether they be good or bad words. I don't know why the people that are in my life stick around. They tell me how interesting I am. They have no idea how messed up I really am. Some days when they say something like that, that I'm nice and caring..etc. I just want to yell, "Don't you see how screwed I am, how messed up I've been, do you realize how pathetic I am, how worthless?? Do you?" People always say how pretty, mature, interesting, so on and so forth I am. I'm none of those. I am damaged goods. I'm a broken toy left at the bottom of the toy chest. Why bother and dig me up, just let me be. I miss him. On days like these I miss him most. I know he doesn't think of me and it's pointless to care. Did I really make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life? To be so happy, to make someone so happy. Then that person just shuts you out completely. I felt like I had been thrown in a little box. Like the toy at the bottom of the toy chest... i guess that description fits well. Perhaps some unsuspecting bloke will dig me up someday and think he's found a real gem. He'll find out though, I'm no gem. I'm just fool's gold. I apologize for having such a pessimistic journal. I'm really quite optimistic. In person I am at least.

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