This isn't my diary. Diaries are secret books kept hidden away from the world beneath the bed. This is my story, my tiny bubble of non-fiction, of how this girl met the boy.

Tuesday, 7 August 2012

Monday, The Last Week In March

I'm driving away. My eyes hurt, my face feels swollen and my skin's dry but still the tears fall. I should stop the car, pull over and just stop. Stop everything, just for a while, because I should have done so long ago. I knew it couldn't continue, it wouldn't last with me patching over the crumbling walls. It didn't matter how much I wanted it all to work, for it all to be how I always thought it would be, my ignorance to the truth was unsustainable, and now it's all fallen and I'm choking in the dust.
Gasping in another lung full of air I snatch my bag from the passenger side floor, groping with my left hand until I feel the solid weight of my phone. Another sob escapes as I try and change gear and drop the phone, it bounces off the gearbox and lands somewhere near my feet. I wipe my blurry eyes and then lean forward, pulling the steering wheel and making the car jerk across the road in my attempt to retrieve it. When I have it in my hand again I sit back and stare straight ahead of me as I try telling myself once again to pull over. Then the crying starts again, just as loud and disgusting as before. My nose is running and I don't have a tissue and my eyes are so swollen they hurt every time I blink.
I grip the steering wheel hard enough for my knuckles to turn white and then shout fuck over and over again as loud as I can.

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