i was so stupid

i decided to clean out my cupboard. i just got 7 to 9 new t-shirts and a couple of shorts so i decided to tear up my wardrobe. i dragged out a pile of clothes neatly folded and well, i came across an old paperbag. my heart sank. it was the one she was looking for. there was a diary inside, and i thought to myself, better not read it. like she said, it might "reopen old wounds that have been painfully stitched". i have a knack of not listening to anyone so i went ahead and read, looking for specific dates in the diary.

i was scarred, and angry.

i guess i had no name back then. i was kept a secret, a dark secret affair that could never be made public. i was like a toy that you kept in your closet, a source of comfort in your loneliest days but it would also make you feel guilty because i was supposed to be kept a secret. honestly i hated this and for many years i've endured.

there was no mention of me.

none at all.

what am i to you? what was i to you? seriously, what was i to you?

i hope you are reading this. i'm just sharing with you the pain. the blood never stopped flowing. there are still shards lodged within this aching heart.