The hate I give

I laid on my bed, scrolling through webtoon with a blanket over my head and it sucked cause I wish I had a novelty life. I wish the colors in my life was pink, yellow and green and no taint of black but there is and the stain is me. 

Title: The hate I give. 

I think people who keep journals and write diaries have no secret at all. People like me if I want to be honest, I have no secret at all. No big secret, no small secret because everything I have ever done has been brought to light and I have paid the price for it and even the one thing that should be called a secret but isn't is the fact that, (nope, can't say.) Anyways, I pay the price for it and is still paying and will forever pay. I am in debt to my own sanity which is pretty ill - defined.

But no, I don't keep journals, at least not anymore because what exactly do I write in it. My daily life? About the boy I like? Or the girl? (My mind is much broader than I imagine) or the thing my dad did last week that got me pretty upset or the fact that I am unsure about life and all it's meaning or that all I want to do right now is lay on my bed with a blanket over my head as I scroll through webtoons on my phone.

The hate I give only applies to me and all the things I still wouldn't do even if I were free. I wish I had secrets, I wish I had something to hold close to my heart, I wish there was something else, something dark, something pastel like, something I could think about as I close my eyes to sleep but there's none or maybe there is, maybe my hate is directed towards something, towards this, all this things that I write.