I fell in love with writing in a room with melon colored walls
The words on the pages of my journal quieted my anxious heart just long enough for me to
breathe, for me to see, for me to read through my pieces and think,
“what the hell is wrong with me?”
The ink that stained my hands, and then my face, and then eventually everything I owned
became a warning sign
I’d walk upstairs with bruised fingers and a pen tucked behind my ear
and after taking one look at me my mom would ask, “so, what’s bothering you today?”
Translation: “so, what’d he do this time?”
Yes mother, I know I only write about sad things,
and no stranger, just because my journal is always with me does not mean you can read it
Journal became my safe word and its pages my happy place
because no one wants the real answer when they ask how you are
and labeling myself anxious and depressed with an eating disorder would mean I’m much too far gone to be loved
Those melon walls are the only ones that never closed in on me
and it’s owner taught me the art of an open heart
So yes mom, I only write about heartbreak and sure, I might be in a bad way,
but here stranger- read this piece I wrote the other day.