Ever since I was very young,
I've carried this anger with me.
Don't try and tell me that it's wrong,
For I know very well it is.
A bitter twelve-year-old I am,
Obsessed with obsession in itself.
I try hard day and night
To set my warped life right.
It's just not working.
Maybe for you, but not for me.
"Why does this scar exist?"
...A series of events
I'd rather not relive.
That's why I have this notebook.
Not that it solves my problems;
It just gets them out of my head.
...And, well, normally...
That is not enough.
Because this notebook won't betray me,
But I can tell it lies.
And I know it will believe them,
No matter what I write.
...This anger belongs to me.
I'd force it on you, honestly.
But I can't.
Anger is good when it leads to changes
...And mine can't even do that.
You don't realize this notebook lies to you,
But I know it lies to me.
...What I would do to be ignorantly bliss.
A bitter twelve-year-old I am.