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I say, “I’m seventeen and insane. Seventeen and angry at the world, seventeen and sad beyond belief.” As I look at my own reflection I see a girl I really don’t know, I haven’t known myself since the sixth grade when I was sure my favorite color would always be purple, and I was sure I would never be in love or get my heart broken. I haven’t known myself since I was fifteen and finally saying goodbye to him six months too late. As my seventeenth year comes to a close, I can’t help but think how I’ve spent most of it trying to keep my head above water. The last year of innocence before I’m thrown into a mad world has been wasted on tears and bloody wrists. I have been both the painter and the canvas, I have been both anger and sadness, topped with guilt. I have been the razor in my fingertips cutting myself, and everyone else out of my life. I have been loneliness at 3 a.m. and the thought of never seeing eighteen. I have been keeping myself from drowning in water too deep, and I have been choking on swallowed words I just can’t say out loud. I have been broken since the day I was born, untouched but ripping at the seams. Cracked veins and blue bruised knees, scarred up arms and dark eyes. The ugly honest truth, and pretty wrapped up lies. I have been fine, just fine.

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I say, “I’m seventeen and insane. Seventeen and angry at the world, seventeen and sad beyond belief.” As I look at my own reflection I see ...
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