June 30th;

I hadn’t written in a while because all my thoughts seemed incomplete. I spent my nights piecing together fragments of sentences that stained the palms of my hands. I iced my morning coffee for fear the steamy liquid would burn all the words I long to say right off the tip of my tongue. When I was young I would sneer childishly at those around me, filled with a childish hope that I would one day see the future I’d always dreamt of. At the age of six, I would study my mothers books, staring into the word stained pages making up a story to suit the title. Confessions.

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