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8.11.13

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It's been two full school years since I wrote in this journal. And I wish I was writing myself to say, don't worry, it gets better. I wish I was writing to say starting high school will give you that clean start.

Your first day, some a**hole will "accidentally" spill cherry Dr. Pepper all over you, your locker, and your front because you are in the wrong hallway. You will walk into the wrong class. You will not realize you are on your period until the entire day is through and you bend over to pick up your spilled books. You will be told you're not trying at the only thing you think you're good at.

You will have trouble eating. You will have trouble not eating. Last night you couldn't sleep until well past 4 in the morning. Your hair will be shorter, and you'll spend the next 4th of July alone. The streets you remember walking down every day when you lived in Boston will be bombed. You will dump your boyfriend. You will loose your best friend. Your dog will die, and your Spanish class will give you panic attacks. They will not stop when you come home.

People you've never met will tell you to kill yourself.

But you will discover
and re-discover

poetry.



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