I sit out on my wooden swing, hanging from the tired branches of the oak tree. One day I will be too big for it, and I shall fall with it. I take my diary with me to write my secrets in. I tell my dear how much I like him, how much I hate them, how much I wish everything could change. My pencil sometimes breaks. Now I write in pen and strikeout words more often than I write them. Mistakes. Mistakes. It's okay. I will get better at this. I write when the goldfish come and continue when they go. The shade is not so dark. I bring my dragon with me, to protect my words from my enemies. He stands on the tree stump where the other swing used to swing. I can hear the stream, but I'm not allowed to go near it. Even if it's only up to my ankles, it'll still drown me. I wore my pretty shoes out, with the ribbon laces, but they're dirty now from the earth and the rusty leaves. I kick the jealous worms away. My pen is running out of ink.
(photo via FashionGoneRogue.com)
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