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In the seventh grade
you wrote down your dreams in a journal
simply because you could never remember,
but by the eighth
all of them
were nightmares.
One night,
when your friend told you he wished he was dead
you ripped out every page that wasn't about him
and shoved it back on the top shelf in your closet.
Only three pages were written on in that journal
one of them explaining to your former self
high school sucks
and freshman year will be hell.
Next week you start sophomore year
and you can bet there will be times
you forget to send yourself postcards from the good days
and so have nothing to read
at four in the morning
when you cannot sleep




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