I tried to keep a diary as a child. After penning one sentence I’d re-read it and despise the words so much I’d rip the page out, crumple it and throw it. But because a lot of my rooms growing up had carpet, the balled-up paper would just lamely thud onto the ground. Nothing that I was saying was right or interesting or what was supposed to be said or w…
© 2024 Mary Neely
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