Post Sixty-Two.

I cried again, just a bit ago. Two days in a row. I hate crying. I really do. I'm ugly when I cry. We all are. It's just a disgusting thing. It's weak. I'm weak.

I wish I couldn't say why I'm upset, but I know why. I know all too well. I find it kind of selfish of me, honestly. Things are far from the same when it started. Cute turned to crude. I hate it. I hate what things have become. Is it my fault? Is it yours? Single blame is far from fair. We both played a part, I'm sure.

Is it selfish that I wish things were back to what they were before?
I miss long discussions of nothing in particular.
I miss intelligent conversations.
I miss times that were adorable.
I miss when things seemed innocent.
I miss the old joking around.

Things change quickly. Life never stops. But what if I wasn't really ready? What if I wasn't prepared of what was to come? Was I okay with everything? I thought I was.

I'm still a kid.

Did I ask for too much?
In return, was too much asked from me?

What was here left.
Lost.
Lost.
Will it ever return?

Please return.
I miss what has been lost.