I needed a name for myself personally, and who and what I wanted to be, I hadn’t had that figured out yet. I was partying, doing childish things. It wasn’t til lack of communication, lack of understanding, accusations, and exes back and fourth that I begin to mature up. For some reason, communication rarely happened, but that journal understood it all, because I’d never tell anybody else.
How you start it’s how you finish, but I didn’t know what was started wasn’t finished. In the back of my head I’d always question why, why couldn’t everything be more open. I was appreciative of the fact that I was loyal to myself, but my loyalty to someone else was always questioned. And when that journal understood more than anybody else, it got ripped up, along with the part of me. It was the only thing who understood me. The only thing that didn’t lie to me, not saying everybody does, but the only thing that loved me back at times when my stomach said something was wrong. And when my stomach said something was wrong, something was wrong.
I jumped right from one thing to another without learning fully about what I had gotten myself into, learning about myself, and what I was about to partake in.
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