Life is misery.

My parents don't understand me- as if they ever could.

My siblings mock me constantly.

Evidently I am too why should I give a damn? to fit in at school.

My boyfriend broke up with me the other day.

My friends are talking behind my back.

I ignore it all.

I walk home and open my journal.

I don't document the day's events; it will never record happiness.

Instead, it's full of poems.

The pages are littered with agony great and small, blurred by the occasional droplet.

I pick up a pencil and begin.

I write in grand tragedy and sweeping metaphor. There are many allusions to such topics as every overwrought teenager adores:

A valley of tears.

My heart eternally broken.

Loneliness.

Painful uniqueness that others only see as "weird."

The pencil carves into the pages viciously, leaving deep gouges, until I'm satisfied.

Then, having inked the paper with my melodramatically bleeding heart, I read it over.

And every day, I laugh at my own foolishness. It's the only thing keeping me rational.

I think to myself, you idiot.

You are a teenager. You have hormones. Of course you're a melodramatic bitch at times.

You have no idea how good you have it here in Nowhere, Appalachia.

Remember: this will pass. This will pass.

Ten years from now you'll forget that any of this ever happened.

Nobody gives a damn about melodramatic teenage years except melodramatic teenagers.

Then I stuff the book into a box, and that box into a far corner of my closet.

(If anyone ever found the godawful phrasing therein, I'd curl up and die.)

And, having gained a bit of perspective on my situation, I pull my real journal out.

I smile wryly at myself, and record what truly was.