roxtrs
The light bulb is burnt out. The flame is not lit. There is no more feeling, no warmth, no love. All that is left is darkness, and I am cold.
I wish my journal was always locked away. But I'm forgetful, thoughtless. I've "lost" many journals in my life. Until one day I found them in my moms bottom drawer of her dresser. I knew she had them when my therapist mentioned the guy who touched me when I was 13. One thing you never think while writing your most deepest secrets is that they will be stolen and used to put you in a hospital.
Level headed... something I'm not, something people tell me to be, something I'm glad for. I'm different, crazy, obscure. Some call me mental. Well, i say, if the shoe fits.