ten pages into my notebook and i'm feeling good, a journal, a diary of sorts should help, write down everything you feel. if you can't tell the paper, who else can you tell?
it's a sucker way for them to say they don't really care.

twenty four pages into my notebook and i'm starting to wonder how this book thing really works, because it seems a lot like Facebook, but only for me to read. "Today, I took a shower." Wow, therapy sure is helping me.

thirty one pages into my notebook and I start to draw at the corners of the sheet, because nothing is coming to my brain to write about. how do you explain these emotions? restless, worried, feeling waves of defeat.
everyone will be glad to get me out of their hair.

fourty five pages into my notebook and i'm really sick of opening my eyes, 
i don't know what to tell people when they ask how i am, because my mom says sometimes, it's better to lie.
what great morals, my mothers philosophy.

sixty six pages into my notebook and I start to become aware I'm running out of paper, and even though i'll never truly meet her, i've rehearsed sixty six times the things i wanted to say to her, and yet still i grow quiet when she enters the room.
you'd like her, i promise.

seventy nine pages into my notebook and i become aware that although i'm not a wasteful person, that it is a waste to fill an entire sheet with blood, i haven't ate in 48 hours, also today i decided not to close the curtain. 
what a breakthrough.

eighty two pages into my notebook and i'm screaming in my dreams, I'm terrified of her, and i wallflower into the corners of the room because for some odd reason, i think i can escape my self inflicted doom. 
she won't hurt you, honest.

ninety four pages into my notebook, and i start to wonder where you've been. when you finally arrive back in my mind, you tell me I killed you, with my paper and pen. 
i never knew i could break you.

i'm on the hundredth page of my notebook, my pen doesn't even want to work because i know it, this is the last and final page and diary of sorts might have helped me find the old Brooke.