Sometimes I think I'm insane. Just last week, I sat in class and and I saw a hand on my desk. It was moving, grabbing my pencil. I wanted to scream and then I realised that it was my hand. I never know what's real anymore. I'm broken inside, and I hold up a mask of paper to stop the other's from seeing the real me. I want to be normal, but I'm broken, imperfect, damaged. I'm terrified of what they'll say when I can't hold up the mask any longer.


Anonymous
03:32:44 PM