sometimes i really think i should have tried harder to do it.
all i have left now are nasty, daily reminders of a time i'd much rather forget.
i'm surely going to hell, after everything that's happened.
i almost told somebody, for the very first time. i didn't. probably a good thing.
i need to do something to help myself.
i thought that i finally grew out of it, but look at me now...
i'm 26, and i'm writing the same things i've been feeling since i was 16.
nothing's changed; i'm always ending up at the same destination, i just take different roads to get there.
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