My journal shakes in my hands, tears at the corners of my eyes blurring my vision. My pencil bag is emptied on the grass, colorful gel pens spread around me. I don’t even remember dumping them. I don’t remember collapsing at the park either. I’m just here, staring, drowning in a swirl of emotions battling inside me.
I grab a black pen, something normal, but nothing comes as I hold it against the thin paper. All I feel is my heart pounding in my chest, my head throbbing. There are no words, no images, nothing.
I drop the pen and squint into the bright blue sky. The sun is warm, prickling my bare arms. My stomach tightens. The weather is wrong, the sun too strong, like it’s stripping me down so all can see.
I try red next. There aren’t words, but I do sketch a few lines, eyes forming on the page. They look like they’re crying blood, and I rip out the page.
Nothing feels right, but then again I’m all wrong too. In the wrong family, with the wrong friends. Not right for him.
“Sorry, babe. We’re wrong for each other.”
Pink is too much like love.
Blue is the color of his eyes.
Brown too much like his hair.
With the purple pen in hand, the words finally come. My heart finally bleeds across the page, a final goodbye to a chapter of my life.
I may be wrong for others, but I’m right for me.
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