Description
This is a story for me, since it's about me of course. But I didn't write it, I found it too late. I once came across an old journal tucked at the bottom of my drawer, hidden and mostly damaged. I was packing for college and decided to clean my room anyway. I could never imagine being written about, no. The way I was told about. It was like being poured down with a bucket of cold water but somehow feeling nothing. I wanted to run, run after the time it was written. How awful is the feeling to miss someone who once sat quietly but spoke a million words, you just didn't know then. I found pages written to me and I can't bring you back to tell you what it took. They were written 4 years ago and we don't even speak anymore. So I'll tell your stories back to you, this time to the world. This time, from my eyes.
Scribbled In Red Ink Back To You
