i picked up ‘the bell jar’ again today. i swore i wouldn’t because it always leaves me quiet for days, but here we are. i thought it would feel different this time, but instead it feels worse, like the book has grown teeth. i keep underlining lines i already underlined years ago, but they mean something else now. i think that’s the scary part of growing up — realizing that the sadness you once pitied in fiction has become your own reflection. i want to throw it across the room, but i keep reading, like a moth staying close to the flame that’s burning it.

i don’t know why i’m here. maybe to bleed in public without anyone noticing. maybe to write the kind of things i never say out loud, because my friends would look at me differently, and my family would call it drama. but words rot inside me if i keep them too long. so this is where i’ll leave them. a landfill of confessions, love letters no one deserves, and thoughts i’m not proud of. if you’re reading this, pretend you stumbled on my diary and couldn’t look away. i won’t blame you. i’d read me too.