(based on this prompt: http://www.protagonize.com/exercise/creative-writing-prompts/133136)
isn't something I'm proud of.
I don't like to admit I wrote it
or that it ever rested on my shelf
or that I ever believed the words--
so spiky and angry--
that covered the pink lines
and heartshaped borders they thought
were appropriate for a girl my age.
My age. A girl. Expectations
of who and what I would be even before
they knew if that was how I thought.
That's what I find there.
Anger at other people for their actions--
'totally unreasonable!' 'so unfair!'--
and because they weren't what I wanted,
never the people I needed.
And anger at myself for my thoughts
and for the things I did or said
that I regretted.
For stupid mistakes that everyone makes
and things I said without thinking
and people I alienated
and paths I should have taken.
Regret and anger and hatred
all spilling over pink lines
in an incongruously cheerful book
meant for a girl who wrote of love and boys
and dolls and happiness.
I suppose that was what they expected of me.
The notebook isn't something I'm proud of
but it's mine nonetheless
and I cannot put it from me.
The regrets still exist inside
The chapter of loathing
has not yet ended.